Enough
Enough death
Enough lies
Enough hurt
Enough cries
Loosing a battle we should have won
Enough is enough
This should be done
Enough tears
Enough fears
time to make it clear
that being put down through all the years
only makes you stronger
Stand taller
Show the world your life was meant for longer
Fight harder
Become strong
Show them they were wrong
Move along
Life going on
Life going strong
Life moving on

I'm up late again.
Can't stop my mind from racing.
Going. Going. Going.
Obsessing.
Ironically, late at night is when your brain is at it's most creative.
Is it any wonder the best artists are insomniacs?
I've been fighting that.
"I need to sleep at a decent hour so I can wake early & be productive."
"I NEED this particular item to write this particular thing."
"I cant sit down & write/draw/create in a filthy house."
"Someone might call or need me, I can't get ****** in to that now."
"I need to clear my head before I can sit down & do this."
"I have my routine, all my daily tasks that must be accomplished, before I have time for myself."
I NEED TO STOP BULLSHITTING MYSELF.
I NEED TO STOP LETTING THIS BE AN EXCUSE.

See, I want to write.
I want to paint.
Draw.
Shoot.
Design.
Cut.
Glue.
Hammer.
Sew.
Create.

I used to do these things to a point of obsession. To a point where they kept me from completing every day tasks.
I remember as a kid, I'd get in trouble for using my school notebooks as a drawing pad.
Or the teachers couldn't keep my on task because I was off in my head scribbling away at some story.
God himself could not pry me from what I NEEDED to let out of me.
Then I grew up.
I think thats what happened.
Suddenly I had so many more things to worry about.
I had to put away childish things.
Life became so much more than the fairy tales I made for myself.
I forgot how to be what I was.
I only knew I had to do things.
Stupid, every day, grown up, necessary things.
That became my new obsession.

I traded one for the other.

Now I stand on a battlefield.
I have chosen the darker evil.
Doesn't make sense?

Remember Peter Pan? His life was full of adventure & freedom & joy.
The grown ups, the ones who forgot how to have those things, became bitter shadows of themselves.
They lost everything for all the wrong reasons.
I don't think I ever felt more closely identified with a fairy tale character (or characters because I find that the many different aspects of my psyche very closely identifies with most every character Peter Pan.)

Anyways.

For several years now, I find that I have been trying to reclaim this lost part of my soul. I don't think anyone, save perhaps 2 or 3 people realize just how important this is to me. These are people that would have known me in my early high school years, before the dreaded piracy of true adulthood took me away.

Why not just pick up the pen & write something? you may ask.
Well, it's not that easy.
Not for an obsessive compulsive thinker.
I'm not using that term lighty either.
I hear brats toss it around like a fashion statement.
Like having OCD is the new trend.
Just because you're a neat person doesn't mean you have a disorder, *******.
I know how many steps it takes to get from each corner & point in every home I am familiar with.
There are patterns in my day that, if broken, send me into emotional Hell.
There are many aspects to this disease.
This illness.
Whatever one may choose to identify it as.
I haven't found something I'm comfortable with yet.
I'm only just beginning to be comfortable with facing this truth in myself.

I let the only reality & peace I knew be burried away & my brain formed this militant prison of order around it.

The good thing is, my heart knows better.

When I'm able to bust those walls down for even a few brief moments in which I can slip past the compulsions & allow complete chaos take my hand & create, I am free.
When I become inspired by something & am able to mentally break away long enough to pursue it, it's like capturing a god ****** unicorn.

Unfortunately, more often than not, I find inspiration fade away. The many excuses I wrote before, just the tip of the iceberg, take hold & beat me back into my weakened submissive routine. I literally have stood still, as though at a play, & watched my head battle in itself to convince me NOT to follow the idea.
I may be *****, but I am no one's slave.
Least of all to myself.
Which begs my fear: control.
Why do I control myself?

Art is not controlled.
Creation is not controlled.
Beauty is not controlled.

These things cannot be tethered to definition or reason or logic or mathematics or laws or routine.
So the war inside me rages.
The problem in my head with its finger in my face is rationalizing ignoring the passion in my heart.
That disorder is sorely mistaken if it believes passion is in any way rational.

So this is what stands:
I am fighting an illness, something I aim to fight & beat & never succumb to again.

Creation is the air I breathe & no matter what worldy or sensory things bring me pleasure, nothing fullfills me like raw thought pouring forth from me.

I cannot stand by envious of the lives & accomplishments of my peers because I was too weak to take hold of the only true thing I hold dear. I am sick of hearing myself say "if only I could" or "maybe some day" or "I used to". I am done crying myself to exhaustion because I physically cannot pick up a pencil.

I don't know where to start.
I guess choking through this & fighting off anxiety attacks as I type is as good a start as any.

My most beloved author, inspiration, & life long hero, Anne Rice said,

"Keep the faith. Writers need faith...Just keep writing & believing in yourself...Just write until the juices start. Don't put up with Writer's Block...eventually you just have to write & write & write."

Write I shall.
Until it gives me anuerysms from fighting these tiny ticks & compulsions.
Until the tears are of success rather than submssion.
One step at a time I will conquer more than I ever thought possible.
I will take back my heart.

The eyes belonged to the judge,
Though they belonged to him, they acted on their own,
While the judge listen to the prosecutor ramble on about the crime committed,
The eyes studied the man in the orange jumpsuit sitting before them.
Noting that orange was not his color at all,
Yes, he would look better in a jade or soft blue jumpsuit.
The man was nervous. Clearly.
The eyes could see his right foot bouncing on its ball in a swift motion.
Observing it was a steady one, beating with his heart, and when his heart quickened,
So did the bouncing.
The eyes looked to his hair, matted and shining,
Definitely not gel. He must be sweating.
Drifting to the arms, since the sleeves were rolled to the elbow, tattoos covered his left arm.
Prison tattoos, he must be right handed then. And this isn’t his first rodeo.
While studying the man, the eyes are trying to decide whether this man is guilty.
Or not.
At that moment the jury broke the eyes aloofness with the judge and they returned to him.
An acclamation echoed of the court walls.
Guilty.
The jury had spoken.

it's not just because you're pretty.
Beautiful.
Gorgeous.
Stunning.
it's not just because you're pretty
that makes my heart ache for you.

it's not just because you're talented.
Excellent.
Amazing.
Inspiring.
it's not just because you're talented
that makes my heart long for you.

it's not just because you love me.
Want me.
Need me.
Desire me.
it's not just because you love me
that I love you with all I have.

it's not just because of all those things.
but all those things together
Wrapping
Twisting
Weaving
into each other
assembling constellations no star-gazer can imagine
creating paintings that would make the greatest blush
assembling music to cast all musicians to shame
it's All of it.
Everything.
creations I never imagined created
that make me
that bind me
that tear me apart
For you
To you
You and only you.

Misery.
See the first three letters?
Twist them,
Fight them,
Love them,
Add an S to M i s,
And you have something you can't get rid of,
Even if you tried.