I often find I share the parts of myself I do not want
or never intended to have.

Too often the constriction of silence forces my lungs to breathe out words I'd rather keep in my head-
words I wish to take back.

My journal is no longer filled with free thoughts & the belief in fate
but rather,
wasted ink on words that feel similar to an empty home.

Too often I'm lost in my clouded disposition,
imitating poets I'll never measure up to,
& forgetting the purpose of poetry altogether.

My words may sound beautiful but couldn't be further from juxtaposing my truth-
a subtle illusion that seems to make all the difference.

If only this beauty was my reality,
because the truth is that I'm destroying myself.
& in this truth I find that
I like it.