This is my story.
It's my first poem in months
and suddenly
I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind
of passing daydreams and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
in the back of my mind,
echoing across the walls of my brain,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
but it's hard when
I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
The scars that litter me
are fading fast,
but I'm standing still
while the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity and
exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
peeling from the walls of my being
like paper,
this is my story.
It's a written and rewritten masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling
a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit down with a glass of wine
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences
and smudged words.
I guess those things come of a story unfinished-
of a work in progress.