Thinking was never my greatest subject in school. It would travel off the task to darker places than what was assigned, but my friend became the teacher, and I’m confident I passed this exam. They told me they believe I’m addicted to the pain, afraid to get better, then asked me why I surround myself with the poetry and music. No beats are missed when I tell them my answer in three parts;
I. I read the poems in search for the comfort in knowing there are others with the same pains, struggles, and frustrations. That I am not alone in every thing I feel, think, and overthink. I love the realness every metaphor can hold.
II. I listen to the music for the same beautiful relationship between the lyrics and my life, carried along by the sounds they create.
III. I write not to be trapped by the pain, but to release it, turn it into something other than everything trapped in my brain, to keep me going until the next good day.
I don’t like when people look over my shoulder as I write. There is a specific kind of embarrassment in the vulnerability of someone witnessing the unfinished thoughts and emotions I am trying to create into imagery. I fear the untimely judgement that follows.
Shadows haunt my mind when
sleep should be pushing me
into submission. A tiny glow
opens my eyes to the monsters
under my bed and I’m forced
to lie awake holding insomnia’s
hand waiting for the sun to
get up for the day.
As the saying goes,
the inability to sleep comes
from another having you
stuck in their thoughts.
If this is true, who is
spending so many hours
with me on their mind?
Tell me why I am the
one your thoughts have
decided to become stuck on.
Tell me all you haven’t
said in the waking hours.
If this saying is true,
I apologize for so many
long nights spent with
my presence in your head.
Someone take away my ability
to write. Hide every pencil and
burn all the paper. Destroy the
words I have yet to say. Cut off
my hands so I can no longer be
held accountable for my thoughts
making it onto these pages.
Sitting on my happiness,
I’m drowning in the pool of chaos.
loneliness is filling up.
I do not breathe through the hourglass,
the essence of time an illusion that
interrupts the wandering daydreams
that guide me through a minute’s hour.
Walking in a daze of bliss, I am
ignorant to every second gone by,
and the days that pass with a lack