I want to be able to write words,
Words, that like ocean waves ebb and flow and whose frothy white residue covers your feet and makes you wiggle your toes
Words, that like a warm hug engulf you in the depths of love, of care, of hope, rescuing you from the mundane reality of life
Words, that like a melody transport you to a field of yellow lilies, arms wide spread, whose carpet you lie on.
Words, that drown out the cacophony of the fake and incessant world and allow the hush lull of day break to fully wake you from your slumber.
Words, that become you more than you, because words are all I have to give. My words.

Do you sometimes feel that you need to get it all out but words evade you?

That it's not the lack of feeling but the overwhelming amount of it that chokes you, suffocates you, clouds the mind - leaving you incapacitated to form any sense of coherent thought.

That if you could just get it all out like you wanted to, you would not only feel better but you would love it.
Love your words, your thoughts, yourself.

Even if what you write is not beautiful but ugly.
Tarnished by age, jaded by thought, but more you then you itself.

If you could let the vessel overflow, unhindered. Let the dam finally burst so that you are left with a void, an emptiness you can fill again?

If only for a day, I long for that new beginning.

I use,
Drugs to make me numb,
Alcohol to make me fun,
Laughter to hid the tears,
Jokes to hid the fears,
Talking to dull the thoughts,
Walking to run away,
Crying to feel the pain,
Lying to start all over again.

Slowly struggling into oblivion
A never ending circle of despair.

Sometimes its fine to cry. I tell myself that.
It’s fine to feel alone, hopeless and lost.  
It’s fine to doubt yourself and people in your life.
To question everything you know and believe in.

They say that its in moments where you are really struggling you realise who your true friends are.
Who you reach out to. Who reaches out to you. Who cares. Really cares. Like really really cares.
Movies and books have instilled in me how a friend should be.
A good friend. A real friend. A true friend.
You know someone who makes your problems there own.

But in real life does that happen and the real question here is - do you do that?  And you know the answer to that.
You don’t .
Then how can you expect others to.
How?

Pick up the pieces love, the crumbs of yourself.
Put them together and create a new you.
I know it's been hard and that is life, you know.
So be strong and pick yourself up and let's go!

Today I write and that's ok.
It's ok that it's taken me so long to put pen to paper,
To truly want to venture back into this murky mind,
To try to uncover, rehash, penetrate,
Why I feel this way,
the mess that this mind has become.

It's ok for me to be riddled with anxiety,
to leave cause I'm scared of who I might meet,
of whose judgements I will fall short off,
Of whose scanning gaze will dismiss me once again,
for I'm stuck in a town where I will never change.
Or at least what I believed of me.

But then again is this just my anxiety,
whispering sardonic words into my psyche,
making me question every word that leaves my mouth and my mind,
Is it ok to feel this clutching sense of inadequacy, loneliness, emptiness, numbness?
Am I not trying enough? Do I need to be better?
I do.

Putting pen to paper, putting meaning to words
Slowly trying to accept that paper planes of life will fall
To the waste side of the real and all that will be left
Will be the smoke of years that were more and still less
Trying to tightly grasp on to the idea of brimming
As emptiness is usually the blanket covering my frail identity
Butterfly spread your wings and fly
Wow, english you betray me.