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.