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I don’t think anything will ever feel finished. No matter how much I write, personally like what I write, get a positive reaction from what I write, I’m never fully confident in it. I’ve always had such severe imposter syndrome just with everything I do and sometimes it just smacks me in the face.

I mean the core of me as a writer and creative is my severely insecure and mentally ill 15 year old self, I think it makes sense that no matter how much I work and grow as a writer I still feel so unsure about it. I still like to show people my work, even while I’m still working on it, because I am a perfectionist and people pleaser at heart who needs to know what someone likes to make it better.

I think I started to finally feel more consistently confident, probably because of my increased participation in community, but something always happens that body slams me back into my insecurity and imposter syndrome. Leaving me with the echoing “why the fuck would I ever think I deserve recognition” bouncing around in my mind. It fucking hurts.

Nahhh they were a dumbass I’m gonna write scathing shit about them and they can read that shit in front of me and know my true opinion on them.

Well yknow I love writing silly lil poems and shit about the people in my life but the fear of someone I don’t know that well finding out a poem I wrote is about them is incredibly fucking strong. Like haha totally didn’t write a sad lil poem about learning to allow myself to fall in love with you before I actually went out with you.

Well yknow I love writing silly lil poems and shit about the people in my life but the fear of someone I don’t know that well finding out a poem I wrote is about them is incredibly fucking strong. Like haha totally didn’t write a sad lil poem about learning to allow myself to fall in love with you before I actually went out with you.

I was fucked over being born into this world Once upon a time I believed that things had to happen for a reason That I had to be hurt and ignored and looked down on for some greater vision So far the only reason seems to be testing my sanity and patience I was destined to endlessly need to fight for myself

At one point I believed in a god that gave me a reason They were supposed to give me the strength and be the reason I fight But too many people who taught their ways ripped me to shreds Long gone are the days in which I could believe them, that I deserved it Or believed in a god that would allow that

Over the years my purpose in life has become spite I no longer trust any universal truth that all this hurt had a reason Moving on means to succeed beyond the belief of those who belittled me To be believed in by those who are like me Turning my pain and past into art and community

I was never sure about you

From the beginning I couldn’t read you

I had a sinking feeling nestling deep in my chest that you might ruin me

Slowly as I found out what makes you tick

The more I make you laugh, brighten your day, learn about you

It’s addicting

Knowing that deep in me, I could get lost in you

Love songs make me depressed, exhausted of waiting to understand them

They remind me of such a pivotal foundation of human experience I have yet to discover

The isolation increasingly frequently nipping at my heels as I grow older

“Maybe I’m not meant to understand”

Good music is good music, I could never give it up

getting lost in the words of eloquent songwriters, an epic train wreck of all hyperactive anxious freight trains of thought

letting the base vibrate through my skull and down through my heart, reminding me of the human nature at the core of my being

melody flowing through my limbs, it feels like what I imagine falling in love feels like

Sometimes you just have to hard start all over, first drafts don’t have to be the final product or anything even like it.

Sometimes you just have to throw out ideas in front of you so you can start to get an idea of what you want.

Its okay to start to completely restart with a better idea of what you want and a better understanding of how to get there.

Flailing first is not failure.

growing pains

It may be familiar but I hate it

18 years of childhood spent there

Down the street from the elementary school my siblings and I went to

Its where I learned to drive

Where I navigated the torture of adolescence

It is an uncomfortable familiar, uncomfortably emotionally historic

It is no longer home

I don’t know if it was ever truly “home”

Its kind of just where I was born

Its the home that was given to me, made for me

I wasn’t even a person I recognized as me when I was there

I left “her” back there when I left, that was “her” home

TW: mentions of self harm

Purging Through Poetry

I haven’t felt like this in a while

I haven’t craved that pain in an even longer time

Never before have i yearned to carve out all of the pain and leave it behind so strongly

The usual coping mechanisms didn’t help, no matter how unhealthy they were

The distractions could barely divert my attention from the deeply intruding thoughts

The less harmful substitutes barely grazed the surface of what needed release

In times like this i feel self conscious asking for help

My anxiety just throws fuel into the flame

Or does the flame just fuel my anxiety

Every time I’d pull out my phone, a small voice in my head would dial my best friend’s number

When every other voice in my head reached out and turned off my phone

Scolding me for thinking that anyone could be anything but disappointed in me

In times like this I can never bring myself to put feelings on paper

My finger tips are weighed down by my true feelings and dark thoughts

Three days later i finally have enough energy to purge all of my feelings out onto the paper

Three days later I can finally bring myself to relive the pain only for the sake of releasing it

Releasing it in one of the few healthy ways I know

I can’t tell if it’s a red flag or a green flag that my preferred mediums of writing are poetry and playwriting just because I hate thinking about grammar.

sometimes being a playwright is just deciding how ur gonna be an agent of chaos today

The lingering smell of fireworks makes me sick

How overwhelming smoke fills the air, still meeting your lungs, choking, singeing, burning

A feeling of vague déjà vu, figuratively so

The thing about fireworks is they make themselves known

The flash and shine, let alone the bang, but the most miserable is that of the flame

What's left of it looming in the air

This doesn’t make any sense

Why does this make me think of you

Talking with you makes those flashes of fireworks erupt and bang in my mind but the smoke

It chokes me and singes my heart

It leaves me sick

The overwhelming dread and insecurity nauseates me

Figuratively that lingering smell of fireworks