Every Other Morning

I am doubtful, pessimistic, and trying too hard.

I am circling my wishes with timid nooses, afraid to kill them but more afraid to lose them.

I am clutching to my sanity desperately, praying to a god I don’t believe in that it will get the best of me.

I lean in.

I am overthinking this, I am making myself even more of a mess.

I am inflicting a torture I don’t know what to do with.

Every day I wake up this way, this morning is no different than the ones before, my thoughts still taunt, my actions still torture, I have no idea what I want anymore.

Do I want sanity mixed with medication? Or anxiety controlled with stubborn determination? What direction am I headed in?

I want this writing thing to work, but I am doubtful I have the words to succeed, look at all of those who have gone before me, they were not rhyming, they were not lying to themselves, they had the education that was needed, the friends that believed in them, the mind of complex intensity that makes them worth reading.

I use these words for therapy, they were not crafted with delicacy, they pour out of me, without style, without refinery, unneatly, ungracefully.

What kind of mind am I selling?

An unstable, depressive, anxious mind state is one that is hard to relate to,

But that is all I currently have to offer you.