Part One

About a month ago I finished writing a weird group or collection of lines (it’s nameless, with three parts so far). You could call it poetry, or prose or whatever seems most fitting, but I wrote it with a focus on better imagery and a more striking use of it. It ties in how I feel about myself going through therapy and how my self image has been in dealing with social anxiety. Sometimes I don’t think people around-family specifically- understand how inadequate I feel about actually living this life. I don’t they have any real idea actually. So I’ll just say that this was a release. I didn’t hold back.


I dispute; they say my pain is not that bad

They laugh, as I tear myself right before their eyes

Crumbling the progress that’s been beaten into my head

The lies I am being conditioned to make part of my spirit

Wings trying to fix and lift, ignoring how much they don’t belong


The future sitting on the shelves, hidden away in boxes

Left un-thought about, unloved

Unpleasant, as the black ink forever fades  

I am the memory better off burned from the gray

Destroyed as young blooms swept up by gusts


The new bridge not trusting its own strength

Anticipatory ruin, rust, a certain bleeding

The dependable trip and stumble, what I am…..

A life through the dark, desiring to walk upon the blades I think are there

Waiting to slice through and be made unrecognizable


Shaking hand as it tries to write something important

Up the street, paranoid, answer of the phone

Racing heart, folded bones, when seeing the white coat

When hearing the clicks and rips of their tools and plastics

A thick scent of how much my ‘imagined’ fear hurts.  

I’ll post the other parts very soon.



Filed under anxiety, Art, Death, Life, personal, poems, poetry, Thoughts

2 responses to “Part One

  1. db

    You really have a great way with words.

  2. lucienlachance

    This is amazing, truly, beautiful. All of your poetry has a personal element to it, but this one specifically seems to hold your feelings the most.

    Is it journals that are hidden in the boxes, or books of poetry you’ve written?

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