My fingers are screaming
As I beat a rhythm into my desk's surface.
They strike in the same rhythm over and over again,
But you will never understand why.

It is mistaken for a distraction,
Or perceived to be anxiety.
And my classmates scowl and tell me to stop,
No matter how panicked I seem.

It is not a side effect of ADHD,
Or wanting pity.
It is a silent scream of pain
And fear.
It is my cry for help.

...---...

I have often found irony in it
When such silly people come to me
And ask me of love
They seek for the knowledge that I have not earned
Nor gotten through experience
And yet I can still provide
They call me a master of that trade
A trade that I have never traveled on
And that I never thought I would travel on

I have often found the irony of it
When I have all of the light in the world
Yet the moment I long to read it is gone
That as soon as I need something
It fleas and runs and hides from me

I have often found the irony of it
That when I am in the presence of someone
and name on there lips is never retired
And when they cannot bear to be away from them
And they know every
And every
And every
Little thing of them
They cannot tell this person how they feel
They cannot express to this name
All of the things that they wish to become
They cannot even speak to them

I have often found the irony of it
But now does it hit me with force
Where I used to be so knowledgeable
All of the information has left me
When I thought I could relay of just that
It is gone in my time of need
And now I can understand the people I once called
Silly and Ironic

For I am in love

Utterly and hopelessly in love
And I am utterly and hopelessly lost
And everything I once knew
Has disappeared

I cannot even fathom the thought of them
So much as go up and talk
Yet everyday I yearn
For some way to explain to them
For some way to make them understand
That every time they smile
I can feel my heart throbbing

But there is no way for me to explain
All of my excellence has faded
All of my brilliance has left
I am stuck with a heart throbbing
And a soul hurting

All I have is a face of irony
And a mind that has betrayed itself

Down the river,
Depleting my anger,

Chasing sunset,
With a fixed mindest!

Growing houseplants,
Just like a house pet.

Unleashing my isolation,
With a lot of dissociation

What would have happened if I knocked on their door,
With blood running down my thighs.
Letting them see what I was going through,
Would I have been on the bus the next day.
On the way to school,
Wondering if anyone cared .
Would I be here now,
I know they would have gotten me extreme help.
And maybe I would have gotten that help,
Maybe I wouldn’t be cutting still,
Wondering if anyone cares .

Asleep and
quite untouched
A breath soft
But a cloth
My contribution
to the loft

I wake up every morning,
Filled with life,
Flowing with vigor,
Beaming with enthusiasm.

The day is here for me to create,
A total blank canvas for my own creation,
An open page of endless possibilities,
Just ready for me to make the first move.

I could...
Paint a self portrait,
Create a new dance step,
Model something out of clay,
Write love letters to myself,
Endless energy for creative play.

But first, let's get the basics out of the way.
Breakfast, cup of tea and the news,
Teeth, ****, then shower,
Some light housework and errands,
Decide what to cook for dinner.

I do a quick run to the supermarket,
Pick up some lunch on the way home,
Put on that load of washing,
Send that email I need to write,
And get my dinner prep done.

Exhausted by all this running around,
I need to recharge.
Brew a quick cuppa,
Put my feet up to rest,
Take a quick 10min power nap,
And then the day is mine to create.

...What was I going to do again?
Oh yes! Spontaneous day of creation,
Harness my relentless optimism for the day,
Surrender to the flow of magical possibilities,
Channel it into active, positive modes of creation.

But the time in my day is getting limited,
Enthusiasm is starting to wane,
And my momentum is being lost.
I start to think about all the mess it will create,
And the thought of cleaning it up.
  
....All my creative enthusiasm is gone.
Silenced by my default daily activities,
Routine and discipline are my trauma response,
Fear of being judged and labelled as lazy,
Pleasure and creativity gets lost along the way.

I get stuck in my need to present perfectly,
Making sure everything is in order before I can start my day,
Chores before play,
Hard work before reward,
Vegetables before dessert,
I am pre-programmed that enjoyment is a bargaining chip.

But that rule is a silly made up illusion,
A trauma response inherited from our parents.
Humans are naturally creative beings,
Creativity, joy and play are our default,
Our true catalyst for feeling alive.

Life in its beauty is all about creation,
It flows through our veins as magic,
Unable to be captured or stored,
It needs to be embraced in the moment,
Regardless if your bed has been made or not.

Creation is something I have to commit myself to,
A nourishing practice that fulfils my soul,
A rejuvenating outlet that brings me back to life,
A daily non-negotiable for my well being,
A purpose greater than working the 9 to 5.

Because if we aren't creating,
What is the point of life?
Eat, sleep, marry and pay taxes?
That isn't the life I expected for myself,
This won't be the life I create for myself.

How hot
Inside how
Much you
Feel not
Like much

How does one actually speak to a mod from this site?

There are some serious nefarious things going on in the background (which I can’t say here because I I know the responsible party will flag it) but there is an unhinged individual mass messaging people of weird untrue crap…they are banned in several accounts…any help would be most appreciated.