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.

Continue Practicing

This is practice, where I learn to react.
This is change, where I embrace what I have to say.
This is my contraction, where I combine a beginning with an end.
There is a hint of fantasy, and an undertone of fallacy,
With a touch of disbelief, I embrace a new version of me,
Where I am a woman strong, standing at ten miles tall,
Where I speak confidently, through the gritting of my steel teeth,
Where I dance lightly, on the wings of bravery.
Watch closely.
There is a quickness to my wit, and a loosening of my tight lip,
With an exhale I release all I am dealing with, I choose to lean in,
I choose to look deeper, searching through my secrets,
I choose to release more, allowing my stress to unfold,
I choose to be bold, taking steps with confidence.
Breathe it in.
There is a taste of honesty, and an essence of grace,
With a lingering aftertaste, these are flavors I create,
There is a touch of sweetness, with a hint of bitterness for what I’ve experienced,
There is patience folded in, with a highlight of determination,
There is a lick of optimism, with a dash of skepticism to reign me in.
Continue practicing.
There is a celebration waiting for me in the end, and an opportunity to remain open,
With a heart that I thought to be broken, I will learn how to live again,
This is a chance, where I can reflect upon and release the past,
This is an opportunity, where I piece together my undoing,
This is learning, where I work for what I am earning.
Carry on.
There is still hope for me, and a chance that I will succeed,
With a stubborn recilinacy, I will become the words I speak.

Writing Relief

Just let it go.
Let it fall where it may.
Just let this one lay.
There is no need to exasperate this thought today.
There is no forethought to what needs to be said.
It is felt in the gut instead.
It tumbles out in words and emotions.
It pours out in the form of blind devotion.
It will tend to the needs that are calling.
Just let this idea resonate.
Let it marinate.
Let it be something in which to finally relate.
Trust in the release.
Trust in words that speak.
Trust and breathe.
Don’t activate the escape.
Don’t allow fear to take a front seat place.
Listen carefully to what there is to say.
Then speak in a confident way.
Know that this was meant to be.
Appreciate the years spent discovering.
Value the time spent wandering.
Then continue recovering.
The healing will never stop.
The bleeding is an afterthought.
The problem can be found in forethought.
Release control.
Know what to look for.
Then push to see even more.
Continue searching.
Persist in learning.
Embrace changing.
This cannot be tamed easily.
It will require a daily practice.
It will rely on more than proactiveness.
It will prove to create happiness.
There is a hint of disbelief.
This practice is testing.
Allow it to be.
React naturally.
Speak freely.
Continue practicing.
One day it will come naturally.

A Writer’s Curse

What would you rather hear about?
My confidence or my inevitable self-doubt?
What is more entertaining to read?
My successes or my insatiable greed?
What is it that would speak to both you and me?
Since my trials and tribulations seem to resonate,
Over my power to speak in words in which you relate.
My struggle and depression are what keep you guessing.
My obvious self-hate allows you to debate what kind of person I might prove to be.
You continue to watch me suffering.
You continue to hear me bleed.
You cannot stop watching.
Until the moment when I am finally uplifting.
That is when you stop considering me.
When I have nothing left to debate freely.
That is when you abandon me.
When I have nothing more intriguing to say than I’ve had a good day,
That is when you ignore what I have to display.
Once I no longer struggle to breathe,
That is when you will completely ignore me.
Since the struggle to stay alive is what resonates with those of us who have much to debate.
The depression is what speaks to the collective We who seeks freedom in writing.
These are the thoughts that we need reassured,
To justify an act of suicide that was previously considered unheard.
These dark thoughts are what encourage me to speak.
These thoughts are a piece of me.
This is what you wanted to see.
Until the moment that I resonate with a happier version of me.
That is when there is no support that I can see.
This is when We begin to speak differently.
I am ready to move on and yet you are not happy for me.
I am seeking a new tone and yet you wish that I were still alone.
Since I only receive input when I am desperate.
And you only look at me when I am destitute.
I must reach an extreme for you all to relate to me.
It is only in complaining that you listen carefully.
I hope this is not the truth that I perceive.
I hope that you might still be listening.
I hope that We can share success.
I hope that We still relate when we are at our best.
I hope that this is the tone that I can set alone.
Since after I am done congratulating me,
I turn around and there is no one else I see.
I am alone once again.
And I turn to pick up my pen to describe this depression.
That is when you will reappear to support the words that speak in fear.
That is when you will hold me dear.
That is when you will listen to what you want to hear.


I am intimidated,
How do I think I can do this?
When there is so much more to this craft that I missed.
I was never an once an MFA student,
And I can never claim that I always wanted to practice,
The words that I felt I was lacking.
I never worked towards doing this,
In fact I never even considered it.
I was just looking for a way,
To express my confusing and never ending pain.
I was not thinking that I wanted to share,
These words with anyone else,
Since I am using them to heal,
Instead of for you to hear.
I never thought this could be me,
Sitting at a computer,
Typing out my various dreams for all the see.
I never thought that I would find my voice,
Or that I would be given this choice,
To pursue something so close to my heart,
And yet so incredibly far removed,
From what I have grown used to.
This is not the practice of folding napkins,
And this does not involved canapes,
This profession does not ask me to sacrifice,
The mind that I carry so heavily.
This time I don’t have to hide,
Since no one is demanding that I,
Sink lower to a status of servitude,
And never speak the thoughts that I have bloom,
As I clean yet another plate,
Considering the ways I will never be able to relate,
To those who I serve,
Giving them more credit than is deserved.
Since I now see that one day that could be me.
I could be the served not the service,
I actually could do more than this.
I can use my mind for thoughts,
And I can use my body for less,
Than to display another nametag across my chest.
I could be more than another faceless voice,
Helping humans with their dinner choice,
And I could be less pleasant than they expected,
If my thoughts and actions were not directed,
By the standards set by others,
Who do not care about the minds they smother,
I could use my mind for something more,
Than how to best clean puke off a bathroom floor.
I could be called a writer,
No matter how much I doubt,
That I have anything of value to speak about.
How can I deny this?
As I reflexively clench my fist,
Wanting it all so badly,
That I make myself bleed.
Since I finally want to see,
What I can do when I serve me.

A Guilty Pleasure

I still hide this from you,
Since I am not sure what I would do,
If this piece of me was finally released,
For complete strangers to see.
I can’t conceive what the masses might want from me,
And these words I have to speak,
In order to save myself from my own mind,
And pour out the words I have trouble finding.
I am not used to bearing such obvious truths,
Since I chose to remain mute for much of my youth,
Producing silence when I should have been trying,
To discover the person that I was hiding.
Everyone told me to believe,
In my own expansive capacity,
While no one doubted my abilities,
Expect the hypercritical version of me.
I once chose to be ashamed,
Of the words and actions that I displayed,
Proving the weakness I still possess today,
Could have the final say.
I could have embraced another day,
But the pressure was too much for me to take,
As I carefully watch myself for another mistake,
That I will have inevitably made.
I will never win this debate,
Over what I could have done better,
For the sake of those who don’t know this struggle,
Of seeking a constant rebuttal,
Against my own fallusies,
And the words I naturally don’t speak.
But this has now become a piece of me,
And I no longer see,
The division that once existed so naturally.
Since my words are now poured,
Onto the pages of this score,
Describing plainly what I thought through before,
But never allowed to emerge,
Since I thought I had to vocally purge,
The troubles that only I can see,
And the way that they relate to me.
But my truths haven proven,
To emerge in the medium I am now using,
Leading me to the dreams I once refused,
As I discover this evident truth,
That I am a writer,
These words are a piece of me,
And you might listen even if I don’t speak.

Stop, Drop, And Move On

Stop thinking so much.
And learn to release control,
Over things that you have not been through before.
Stop being afraid.
And focus on what you want out of today,
Instead of all that you missed your opportunity to say.
Stop applying so much pressure.
And be open to new experiences,
When life can seem mysterious.
Stop beating yourself up.
And learn to express self-love,
Giving myself a reason to rise above,
All of the hate that I constantly contemplate,
For myself and no one else.
Stop lying to yourself.
Since there is to be more felt,
Than the pain of what was previously dealt.
Stop clenching your jaw.
And learn to find a release for it all,
Instead of observe my own steady fall.
Stop being you.
And learn how to not think things through,
Since I have grown used to,
Seeking the perfect solution,
Versus recognizing that I am proving,
There is value in all that I am doing.
Stop doubting yourself.
And recognize that there is more being felt,
Than a disappointment in myself,
Since I have proven otherwise,
As I attempt to rise,
From these ashes of my own disasters,
Coming to point in violent clashes,
With the person I had once hoped to be,
And the version of life that I once wished to see.
Stop hesitating.
And learn that I can be,
Everything that I once wanted out of me,
If I am kind enough to understand,
That I am doing the best that I can,
With these never idle hands.
Stop distracting yourself.
And know there is more to how you feel,
Than a desire to appeal,
To the masses of people who ask so much of you,
Never allowing you a moment of truth,
Making you operate in a state of eternal youth,
And allowing this to grow something you’re used to.
Stop listening to others.
And learn to carry your own voice,
Where you give yourself the choice,
To operate plainly in your best version of me,
And no longer regard myself angrily.
Stop all of your thinking.
And provide and end to this sinking,
Doubt that I have nothing to care about.
Stop and listen,
To the words that are missing.
Stop to think,
That I can learn to love me.
Stop and start again,
As I succumb to the commands of this pen.

The Weight Of This Pen

You say to separate these words from me,
And that I need to see,
That I am more than what I portray to be.
You claim that I am being dramatic,
And that I should choose a different tactic,
Besides focusing on the things I lack.
You tell me that I am more than my writing,
And that I am worth fighting,
For against all of this doubting.
You say that some separation would be good,
From the things that I know I should,
Be doing if I want to be understood.
You claim that my words hold too much weight,
And that I should lessen this debate,
Over with who I can actually relate.
Since I so obviously have you,
No matter what I might go through,
You have proven your love will always ensue.
So I am not quite sure what makes me seperate,
From the path that was once so straight,
And promised me a stable state.
I do not know what makes me want to show,
That there are lengths I am willing to go,
Through suffering and fatigue in order to grow.
I cannot fathom what I could consider to be,
More important than allowing myself to be me,
And to finally open my eyes and see.
That I am more than capable,
And I am finally stable,
In my own kind of fable.
My inability to relate to this life,
Is based in an overwhelming belief in strife,
One which I will have to learn to deny.
In order to applaud myself for what I’ve been through,
And know that I am being true,
To the actions and state of mind I want to pursue.
So maybe you are right,
And maybe I should lessen this fight,
So that maybe I will see less fright.
When I approach that which matters to me the most,
And I learn how to compose,
The thoughts that usually have me in throes.
Too overwhelmed to comprehend,
The feeling of my hand and this pen,
And the words that I resort to using in the end.

Trust In The Release

I have too much to think about and even more to drink about.
My thoughts have become overwhelming and crushing as I attempt to rush in.
And the only thing that saves me now is the movement of my pen.
It saves me from the crazy that I have hidden inside and the lazy that I wear as a facade.
It prevents me from drowning in my own thoughts and always knows when I have been caught.
It reminds me that I need to own the feelings and emotions that are building and churning, and crushing and burning.
It soothes the wounds that are self-inflicted and reminds me to stop my bitching.
It allows a release for the secrets I like to keep.
It reminds me of a lust I once had for life and the fact that not everything is characterized by strife.
It lacks judgement and refuses to comment on the flaws I see so obviously within me.
It accepts and never rejects the person I have become and my quest to no longer feel numb.

But I question its influence and the gift it attempts to produce.
I question if it is misguiding me during my quest to be free.
I wonder if it has motives of its own and I wonder if I should actually just pick up my phone.
I am uncertain if I always needed this pen and if it will allow me to put my best foot in.
I accuse it of being just another distraction and one that lacks progressive action.
I doubt that this will all work out.
But for now I place my trust in the one object that can not return it,
And I know that I will never be burned by it.
I know that it will do as I say,
But I do not know what I want to say.
I allow it to take control of my life,
And I know that without it there would be no life.
It is the unassuming partner I have always wanted,
But I never knew what I actually wanted.
It makes me question myself,
And assure myself,
And want to never betray my true self,
Because that is all it knows itself.

Finding My Voice

Today I decided to become a writer.
I decided to stop the bullshit,
Pick up my pen,
And release the fire.
It is a fire of passion,
And one that has been stifled,
Due to a lack of action for the cause of distraction.

Today I decided to speak the truth.
I decided to mature,
And learn,
And abandon my youth.
Because my ignorance is no longer cute,
And the time has come for me to give myself a boost.

Today I decided to be myself.
I decided to embrace me,
The things I have to see,
And admit the place I want to be.
Since there is no place I would rather stand,
While I wait for everything to be placed in my wanting hand.

Today I admit my weakness,
And today I admit the bleakness,
Of a life lived with the slightest desire,
To rise above and achieve something higher,
Than the dreams I had as a girl,
And the trials that have been hurled,
In my direction,
In the pursuit of perfection.

Today I celebrate my strength,
And finally pick up my pace,
In order to achieve,
Something in which I truly believe,
Despite there being no guarantee,
That what I seek will set me free.
But I know I must try,
Because of the fire that burns inside,
And the restlessness that fills my bones,
And the thoughts that run through my dome.
I can no longer bury,
The words that I have always carried,
And it is finally time for a release,
And for me to share the secrets that I keep.
There is no other choice,
Since I have finally found my voice,
And I am stuck with this pursuit,
And admittance of proof,
That I do care about the life I live,
And what I have to give,
To this world and the people I love most,
And that do I have something to boast.

I am not seeking attention,
And I do not crave recognition.
This is not a pursuit of pension,
And this was never a premonition.
This is a quest for expression,
And a need to finally put my best foot in.
I did not seek this out as something to be,
And I did not know that this voice was inside of me,
But I trust that it is what I need,
And that this is my call to something that is not born out of greed,
It is a call of who I want to be,
And everything that I could see,
And everything that is free.