If a poet ever tells you
Writing is easy
Writing is fun
If they say this to you
They are lying
Lying a ton
Being a poet
Isn't easy
This is hell
But writers have a place
To call home
To dwell
Where they live comfortably
Is a dark place
A dark cave
And the only ones who enter
Those who love
Those who are brave
Poets are deep creatures
Endless thoughts
Endless pain
If one lets you see inside
Don't injure
Don't be vain
Just quietly sit there
As their soul
Takes you as part
And absorb what you can
As their words
Come from the heart

I keep telling myself it's okay
But, in all honesty,
That's a flat out lie.
I can't deny it.

If I'm driving to who knows where
If I'm sobbing my eyes out
If I'm screaming at the top of my lungs
If I'm yelling at myself for ******* so badly
If I'm wishing I was someone better
If I'm hoping no ones home to see me
If I'm thinking about how much of a failure I am
If I'm pretending that I can pull it together
If I'm assuming I can break the news without losing it
If I'm sitting in a random neighborhood
If I'm writing this in the confinement of my car
If I'm hoping I can disappear for a day
If I'm completely done with all this trying stuff-

Shhhh, it's alright.
No, it's not.

If I'm set on trying again, I'm an idiot.
If I'm going to practice even harder for next time, I'm wasting my time.
If I think I can do better, I'm lying.

5 times. 3 times....
No more. Please. You'll be okay.
But am I really okay? Do you really think I can ignore the disappointment in their eyes?





*....I didn't think so.

A headache from earlier
Puts shame into my brain.
No, I can't control myself
I am completely reckless
But you don't know that.

You do know that I can't do it
Not even after you've done
All and more than you could do
Disappointment hides behind your eyes
And I know you feel that way.

I wish I could just make you proud the way you want me to.

Dry are the tears
        that are never shed,
Rolling down in silence
        along the golden thread.


They are the warriors
       whose stories are never told,
Born amidst the torments
        with nothing to hold.


Fighting constantly to hold the mask
        and never to reveal,
The battle to defeat the pain
        and conquer Achilles' heel.


The cries of the heart are masked
        by the eyes that run dry,
Smiling through the emptiness,
        letting only a bit of honesty to pass by.

A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Twisting
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
Suddenly
My face isn't my face anymore
Instead
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
Watching
As these self-proclaimed architects
Unraveled
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
Accepting
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
Until,
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
Begged
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
Nullified
By society's architects
Disapproved
As if it were up to them
Invalid
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
Wonder
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me

Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?