This is not a poem.

I am a poet in my brain. And yet when I sit down to type, the words never come out quite so elegant; the point never quite as clear
When I monologue to the mirror as I cry on the bathroom sink, the power of it reverberates back to me, and I think “I should write this down”; but when I sit with pen to paper, my hand trembles and the message is lost in the shaking and as I type, the keys sound furious only because my thoughts don’t translate to ones and zeros

Hi. My name is Kimberly.

None of you know me. And that’s the beauty of this site. That’s why I reserve hello poetry for my emotional dumping ground. No one can know what I feel. Don’t ask me why, it’s an unhealthy habit I am desperate to cling to.

This isn’t poetry. It’s anxious rambling. It’s tears at 3am because I feel lost and afraid and sad and alone and I don’t know who to tell about it
It’s heartbreak and lust because I have no one to admit it to
It’s yearning for memories that I don’t know who to share with
It’s my diary pretending to be free verse; except it’s not an act, it’s simply a lie

There is nothing poetic about my work .It has no style or rhythm. But it’s the only way I know how to express my emotion any more... and I’m losing touch even with this.

I don’t know who I am anymore

I got the first D (3 of them) of my life last semester and now I’m afraid to go back to school
I’m afraid I’m a fraud. A scam. I don’t see why anyone should trust me or believe in me. I don’t know how my parents can still call themselves proud after the **** I pulled

I’m trying to be hopeful. Trying so hard to believe I can be something better, but everyday I find it harder and harder to will myself out of bed. Harder and harder to even try. I shower later and later in the day, always in the afternoon.

Unemployment doesn't suit me. But to go to work right now feels foolish.

I have a crush on what could be my best shot at the one.
But I can’t do anything about it because I am a wreck.

I am can’t sleep during the night, shower in the afternoon, losing myself to tumblr, spontaneously crying, hasn’t seen the light in weeks, $400 in debt, unemployed, unprepared, wrecked.

I am lost, and worn and tired and hopeless and I can’t make a move now because I can’t even stand on my own two feet. Hell I can’t even get out of bed, how am I supposed to date?
There is value in struggling through a derivation for the formula. What I mean to say is I think there is value in learning how to claw your way back from the dark. And I know I don’t have to do this alone, but also I think I need to do most of it. All of it, all of the clawing and fighting, any support should come in the form of encouragement.
But I refuse to use someone else as the crutch or the lifeline to get me through. Because then I have not struggled and have then not grown and have not then gotten stronger.
And so I can’t date him. Not now, not yet, and I’m so ****** at the timing of it.
**** it- I think- caution to the wind, love with abandon.
Yes but what about me? How can I take care of me? No. I can’t do anything until I can stand on my own two feet again.

God I miss that. I miss the pride I had in myself and the happiness I had at just being able to see blue sky, every day. I am torn between I love who I was and I hate who I am. I’m torn between I can come back from this and being afraid that I will never be enough to come back from this. That it's over
And that’s nonsense, I know that, but ****. I’m so afraid. Maybe I am less than I thought I was. Maybe I’ve always been less than I thought I was. But maybe I’m just less than what I used to be. Which is worse?


Anyway... I keep thinking its a switch that I can just click be better.
But It doesn’t work like that and I genuinely don’t know my way back.
I don’t.
I’ve tried every trick I know,  I did everything I could to keep this from happening and yet.

I am can’t sleep during the night, shower in the afternoon, losing myself to tumblr, spontaneously crying, hasn’t seen the light in weeks, $400 in debt, unemployed, unprepared, wrecked and I don’t know who to tell about it.

So. Here you go. Listen to my pathetic rant, my cry for help. I jettison this letter out knowing it falls on deaf ears. Deaf ears, but not blind eyes. I know when I publish this people will see me. They will see my pain and, I’m not asking for help, but at least they will see me, they will see my struggle and I will know I’m not alone.

This is the bravest I have ever been, and what does that mean? I am a coward.

I am not a poet. Never have been, and everyday I become less of one. So, thank you, for making it to the end of this abomination.