They say you should write what you know.
They tell you to draw from your experiences and share them with the world,
but how can I do that when I don't want to share it with myself?
I try, however.
I try to find the right memory,
the right experience,
the right words.
I search my brain aimlessly for a memory that isn't too faded or "improved on" with glitter
or where the details are glossed over for purposed of retelling a better tale.
How is it possible for me to have lived so long but not be able to recall memories?
To have been so many places but allow their faces to turn to dust?
Is it too hard to hold onto so many hands that I end up letting too many go?
Why do I feel alone
in a house that's filled with laughter and light?
my house is a good house
but I am not enough to fulfill the mold I have made myself
so instead I fill my stomach
to try to feel
less empty
inside
my mind.

"Every story ever told really happened. Stories are where memories go when they’re forgotten." - the 12th Doctor, Doctor Who

There is no such thing as fiction.

What we have deemed fictional are simply
stories that have bleed through time and space
from parallel universes and the past, present, and future.
Authors are visionaries who see through the cracks in time
and **** through the technicalities and details
in order to entertain the mundane
thoughts inside our conditioned heads.

There is no such thing as fiction.

Stories allow us to go places without moving an inch,
be people we could never be,
do things we could never do
in this world
in this body
in this life.

There is no such thing as fiction.

Because how is it possible for people to write about fictional
people
places
things
and describe them better than anything real that I could describe.
How could these people bring me to tears and make me want to throw books across rooms
if nothing happened?
How could they do that unless they were there
and these people are real
and these places are real
and these situations are real?
I don't believe it.
I can't believe it.

There is no such thing as fiction.

Though I was born through
the dust and ashes of fallen stars,
I walk behind my equals
And I am treated like property.

Only I know my true power.
I have the power
To bite my tongue
And play along,
To sit on a shelf
And keep to myself.

I am only wanted for my beauty.
Constantly changing to
Keep up with trends,
Starving myself to fit in the mold,
Denying myself what I want,
Sometimes cutting my wrists with the knife
Because I can’t become the perfect wife.

I can only be so powerful for so long.

I speak up.
I open my mouth,
Cut my hair,
Wear what I want,
Because I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter what they see;
I will be what I want to be.

‘Cause I remember being wanted,
feeling fearless and undaunted
by the task placed before me.
Now all I do is sit under trees,
thinking about how this once perfect world
has become so unfurled;
how this world is so tilted
and kindness has wilted-
so much so that a compliment
has become so complicated.
that everything is a come on,
and we must keep an eye on
the hems of our dresses
and our beautiful tresses
in order to keep the boys happy.

Women deserve more
Than becoming a total bore
To prevent being called a *****.

Women deserve to live
Without having to give
Their life away
To make the men stay.

Sometimes it's hard to disregard
My feelings and emotions.
My head fills up with thoughts
And it feels like I'm drowning
In a sea of nothingness but
At the same time
I'm experiencing everything all at once.

I start to feel the sadness
creeping in my head,
Not far behind, you will find
anger and dread. Along comes
Doubt, unyielding and stout,
Then happiness comes out to play,
No one knows what they're doing,
I feel like spewing just to get the feelings out.

There is love
And there is hate
But look up above
And appreciate
little things, such as foxglove
And mathematic problems that equate.

In this world, there is me,
And here, with me, there is you.
In this world, there is a “we”
And I want to do
Nothing more than be
Close to you.

I don’t really know who you are.
Kids use you like a monkey bar.
You let them bask in your cool shade.
All of this without being paid.
A tree, unappreciated.
To this dull life, you are fated.
Unknown, unloved, longing for change.
You are limited in your range.

Dear tree, I now know who you are.
Your love shines as bright as a star.
They'll try to shake you; don't be swayed.
If you fall, I will be dismayed.
Give up? I'll be devastated.
Be more than you're estimated.
While although they might call you strange,
do not become disarranged.

Dear tree, you are big, strong, and tall.
Do not let them be your downfall.