I won’t accept that it is within my control to change and I will continue on with this feeling of being deranged.
Because sanity does not feel like something that is within my range to obtain.
I wake up and try optimism,
Just to sit down and be crushed by claustrophobia,
Caused by this desire for escapism,
And encouraged by my own phobia,
That this life could mean so much more,
If only I step up to allow it to…
But the strength it takes makes me weak,
And the persistence it requires makes me drag my feet,
As I seek to compete with the very image that provides my defeat —
An image of a woman who is strong and is in for the long haul,
Dedicated to a purpose and driven by nothing less,
With enough intelligence to know when to call it quits,
And accept that this life is what I make it.
But I don’t want to accept the progress,
And I hesitate to not applaud where I digressed,
In order to take the path that shouldn’t be traveled,
And dive into the thoughts that should not be harbored,
Because there is something in me that does not want to be free,
And there is something encouraging me to deny this ability.
I can’t stop this lack of motivation as much as I can’t deny my distraction.
I won’t accept this choice and I will continue to deny the sound of my own voice.
Because it is too much to bear and the disappointment I find in myself is leading to despair.
I go to sleep with a head full of pessimism,
Not allowing my thoughts to be a friend,
Encouraging everything to bring me down with the best of them,
And pouring my feeling of frustration out of this pen —
Because I never seem to change,
And I no longer claim it to be a mistake.
Since it is obvious that I chose to be estranged,
And this is what I was willing to take.
I accepted my defeat years ago,
And came to see that I am incomplete,
As long as there are secrets that I insist on keeping,
There are struggles that I continue reaping,
And thoughts that will prevent me from sleeping.
I can’t stop,
And I won’t accept,
Because this life is too much to expect.
Maybe I need a boyfriend.
Maybe I need a friend who will just hold my hand.
Because I have been losing my shit,
And I have become complacent about it,
To the point where I cannot begin to explain it.
I wake up every day and do what I have to do to get by,
Serving the single purpose of avoiding the chance to die,
And having this overwhelming feeling to breakdown and cry.
Not because I think my life is a waste,
Since I would be dead already if that were the case,
But because I am frustrated with this place.
I am frustrated that I can’t seem to stop smoking,
And I hate that a hobby of mine is toking,
That is pushed to the point where I have become broken.
I can’t seem to function without the release,
I find in the secrets that I consistently keep,
Hiding the fact that I am struggling and preventing me from taking a leap.
Because I have faith in my abilities,
And I have confidence in my reality,
That I have the power to change everything about me.
But the real question is —
Do I want to change this?
Or am I satisfied with my shit?
Is this life something to complain about?
Or something that motivates me to shout out?
And claim everything to which I am devote?
Because this struggle has made me who I am,
And I have never allowed anyone to hold my hand,
Since growth is something only I can accomplish in the end.
Which leaves me to question,
The complaints that I purge with this pen,
And the manner in which I approach this life again.
Do I need someone to hold my hand?
Or can I do this independently that way I always have?
And why do I feel shame in admitting that I can?
Why do I feel pressure to have a life that is “complete”?
And why can I not deny this secret that I keep?
How can I suppress this thought that does not allow me to sleep?
That I am missing a piece of this life,
And that that piece could lessen my strife,
If I only allowed myself to be open to my own advice.
If only I stop fighting this change,
And stop feeling like I am deranged,
In order to accept that I am struggling through this pain.
And the one thing that might help,
Would be if I removed myself from the isolation shelf,
And accept that I desperately want someone other than me to support myself.
I used to be cool when I acted like a fool.
I used to be hot with a drug induced gaunt.
And I used to think that my acts of detriment were something to flaunt.
I could have cared less about consequences,
And I always operated on the defensive.
I was prone to promiscuity,
And I was drawn to pessimistic personalities.
I embraced a lack of control,
And I thought there was nothing that I could not endure.
But it was the foolishness of my youth,
And the denial I held as truth,
That led me to live life that way,
And keep all my emotions at bay.
Because I was numb,
And doing anything to escape the release of a gun,
Pointed at my brain,
To stop the pressure of feeling insane.
Because I could not bear what life had thrown at me,
And I was struggling more than I was able to see,
Through my drug induced haze
And this part of life that I thought was just a phase,
Until it became a piece of who I am,
And I began to no longer recognize my own hand —
That instinctively reached for a bottle,
And brushed off any attempts to be coddled,
So that I could struggle through this alone,
And never find a place I could call home.
Because nothing can replace that sacred place,
And nothing can be what I used to see,
Life has changed permanently,
And I am in too much denial to let that be.
So I drank away my thoughts,
And I pushed aside my regrets,
Until there was nothing left but my confusion,
About how I got here,
And how I lost track of everything I used to hold dear.
I used to be driven and took nothing forgiven.
I used to have hope when I looked at the full scope.
I used to be lost in a desire to explore my own thoughts.
And I used to think that by this day I would be living my life with love and not dismay.