Today I write and that's ok.
It's ok that it's taken me so long to put pen to paper,
To truly want to venture back into this murky mind,
To try to uncover, rehash, penetrate,
Why I feel this way,
the mess that this mind has become.

It's ok for me to be riddled with anxiety,
to leave cause I'm scared of who I might meet,
of whose judgements I will fall short off,
Of whose scanning gaze will dismiss me once again,
for I'm stuck in a town where I will never change.
Or at least what I believed of me.

But then again is this just my anxiety,
whispering sardonic words into my psyche,
making me question every word that leaves my mouth and my mind,
Is it ok to feel this clutching sense of inadequacy, loneliness, emptiness, numbness?
Am I not trying enough? Do I need to be better?
I do.