I am here on earth
Technically

I am in my mind though constantly
And that's the reality

Unfortunately
Being in your head
When it clearly hates you
Is exhausting

The overthinking
Doubting
Repeating that same words over and over again
Guilt for things you didn't do
Morbid thoughts about someone killing your family
Intrusive thoughts about stepping on to the road

"They're not realistic"
You tell yourself
But still inside believe that they could be



It's like if you always were eating the same food
Everyday
Every second
And you don't like it
It makes you feel sick

I feel sick
All
The
Time

Both mentally
And physically

Please release me from my head
My hands hurt from trying to break the bars
But don't do it like I do
Where I end up kind of not feeling anything at all

"Is this because you are a part of me?"
I wonder
Maybe
Maybe not

We are all suns
In our solar system

Some suns are arrogant
Only caring about themselves
They exclaim
"I'm the biggest one!"

And some suns are kind
Hating some
But loving most
They exclaim
"We are all stars
We should all be one"

If the world
Lost it's poetry, art, music, dance, stories, books, and performing
I think
The population would be cut in half
And those 4 billion people left
Would be miserable

I image life without them
As unlivable

Do you know that feeling(less)
Where you feel all the emotions at once
But yet
Feel none at all

Like you can't cry
But are choking back tears

Like you never want to open your mouth
But you do want to scream

And like you want to curl up and die
But also get out of the house and live?

I love
When I make people laugh
And when they feel comfortable enough to cry
To share theirs thoughts out loud
So I can too can be mad
And express how much I don't want them to die

Maybe we write to
make ourselves feel better

about the pain,
heartache
and every other
torturous infliction
that gnaws at our insides

Maybe we write to
survive the torture

because,
instead of screaming on the underground
or crying at dinner
we wait for the confines of paper
or thumbs to Notes.

Maybe we write
because we know
nothing else

isn't that ironic?

We know nothing.
Maybe that's why we write.