my chest is heaving,
a person that I don't
Where has the time
I'm growing older and older,
now I'm falling.
My feet are still, but I'm falling.
calling for a friend.
But, no one's here.
Is this the
I feel like I'm dying.
Even though I know I'm not.
I'm breathing, I think.
I have to be,
but I've struggling to feel anything.
Everyone says it's impossible
to die and keep walking the earth
but I feel like the person I am died long ago
and now I'm just sitting in a suit of skin.
On a dimly lit street is a house,
with broken windows shattered from expectation
and a roof not built to hold the weight of living.
The furniture is covered in dusted memories from the past
and the floorboards creak with the sound of every mistake.
The grass that once sat atop the dirt has ran away
and the pool is filled with an ocean of tears.
The laundry hamper is full, piling up with self doubt.
This is my resting place;
a little tattered,
a little sad,
but a little hopeful.
am not made of stone,
the way I exist says the opposite.
am not made of wax,
the tears that fall disagrees.
am not made of paper,
the scrunching of my soul yells otherwise.
the chaos inside my head challenges that.
A little broken,
a little flawed.
A little self love goes a long way.
I will never get better,
but every step I take will build a bridge
towards a lighter weight on my shoulders.
Recently I've been having
with myself, in the dark.
I ask myself questions, like;
"Do you have likes and dislikes?"
"Do you have hopes and dreams?"
"Where do you see yourself in the future?"
I never respond,
I never have an answer to respond with.
how many kingdoms
have I blown to dust
to get where I am?
I haven't written in a while, however I'd like to start again. It's 2 am, this thought crossed my mind and I couldn't get it out. How much of life have I missed out on because of my anxiety and depression? I imagine the percentage is quite high. I want to start going outside more, putting my dusty camera to use. Perhaps this short poem will give me the courage to do so.
Ode to a Poet(writer)
I know you,
4am is when you feel most at home.
I feel you,
Blank page, full pen,
I see you,
Looking at a page waiting for a tale to unfold,
When it starts, it flows,
I am you,
Hiding away, writing my pain,
Day to day,
We are art,
In the way we move,
We are the dreamer's and believer's
Pad and pen in hand til our dreams come true.