I don't want it like this
When I'm going sixty and you're dragging your feet
I'm in for the ride, brake line cut
and there's only shadows and dreams in the passenger seat
Next time let me know before you tuck and roll

I have 17 empty notebooks
This morning it was 16, but I bought another on my way home from work because it was leather bound and on sale
It cost an hour and a half of work
...
So, I have 17 empty notebooks
One is missing a page 
I needed to write down an appointment but I didn't want to ruin the whole book
Another has three pages that are actually written on
It was meant to be a bullet journal but the box marked "bullet journal review" was never checked off
Notebooks three, four, and twelve are actually binders which are usually in a different category but what is a binder if not an evolved journal?
Or maybe they're all subspecies of paper
Its all paper
Paper that speaks, whispering to me in my soft moments when there is nothing to do except worry about all that unfilled space
"We were trees once. We were alive. We were cut down and reshaped to fulfill a larger purpose and this is what becomes of us?"
My guilt turns to anxiety turns to pen clicking and that makes it worse, reminding all 18 of us that I am perfectly capable and yet wholly unwilling
It's not like I haven't tried
All of those notebooks were bought with a specific use in mind
Well, they were all bought and then later justified by thinking of a use that I knew would never come to fruition
Bullet journal, grimoire, dream journal, poetry journal, school journals
...
So, I have nearly 17 mostly empty notebooks in a drawer
They used to sit on my shelf but it didn't seem right placing those empty vessels amongst a universe of universes and filled pages
Like parking my totaled '97 Toyota Corolla next to a Porsche
So they're in a drawer with a few torn shirts I keep meaning to turn into patches, a barely used oil pastel set, and a dusty Bass for Dummies book
So maybe this is a lesson 
Maybe I'm making oceans out of puddles
Maybe this is a metaphor for my life and all of its wasted time and blank pages; blank from the months I spent lying on a couch, wrapped up in the cold snow blanket of fear and regret
I regret so much and the more I regret the more anxious I become the more unlikely I am to get up and pick my story back up the more pages pass by as barren as the day is short
Or Maybe
Maybe I should just stop buying new notebooks

i dont live anymore
i mean, god, i don't know
i'm alive as far as science is concerned
and don't even get me started on what the gods think
what's living to an immortal anyway?
so, i'm technically alive,
but on anxious 3 ams my symptoms point to husk
and i spend a lot of time on webMD when i can't sleep
rest is for the righteous and living
and there is a sickness in me i fear to name

Wild ride girl
Windows down, hands up
fingers splayed
trying to catch the sun rays

Soft Summer girl

tells me to buckle in
that we're going for a spin

Flower petal girl
all wilderness and
thistle bush 
tugging my shirt sleeves

Morning dew girl

knows we're headed for a cliff
but **** if i'm not ready to fall

I don’t mind the distance
until it’s three in the morning
and all I have are empty sheets

I don’t mind the distance
until I’m coming home from work
and you’re going to sleep

(I don’t know how to do this)

I miss you with every passing thought
I miss you with every wonder I’ve ever had
I miss you with every second that’s lost
I miss you with all the dreams in my head

I don’t mind the distance
until you’ve been sick for two weeks
and my comfort is a long empty street

I don’t mind the distance
until you’re baring your traumas
and these shoulders can’t reach

(but I know I wanna try)

I love you more than the space between us
I love you more than the night sky has empty space
I love you more than the sun longs to warm the earth
I love you more than I hate the miles between our hearts

In my midnight daydreams there is no distance,
because my heart is with yours
and it beats to the tune of fate and happy endings
My soul has known yours for an eternity
and what is a couple hundred miles
compared to our truth of infinities

I keep writing 
writing and writing
on scrap notebook paper,
in the margins of my favorite books,
on old receipts for new notebooks
my hand is not yet worthy of
writing in circles
around and around
around the issue
around myself
big wide circles
turning everything i do
into a cyclone of denial
and hand cramps

I don't know what I'm doing anymore
I don't know where I'm going
or how to get there
Most days, I feel like a parked car at a green light
Other days, I don't feel like anything at all
Is this what life is?
How do people stand it?
Why didn't anyone warn me?
Where is the revolution for living?
Maybe nobody cares
More likely, they're just too tired to live
Everything is so hard
I'm tired too