I betray myself with thoughts of you
Though I hid you away
Why gone you would not stay
For love denied our ribboned passions
The unnumbered time we left
You could not stay
Gone too long, gone too late
Myself, I betray

I have an anxiety disorder.
I know, I know.
We all do.

It’s 2019. We’re Gen Z.
We grew up eating Red 40,
and processed sugar’s our religion.

But I have an anxiety disorder.
And ADHD. And a bit of OCD
when it comes to schoolwork.
Or books. Or anything that
does not matter.
But my room? Hahaha,
what’s cleaning?

I have an anxiety disorder.
That phrase goes through
my head several times a day.

I feel the constant buzzing.
My dance teachers used to
tell me to radiate energy
out of my fingertips.
And I do.
My hands tremble constantly,
and I forget to breathe.

I used to be that kid that
always had an imaginary friend.
When I was little,
his name was DeeDee.
But when he went away,
and there were others.
Like characters in a story,
but I could see them. Talk to them.
Now the voices are just in my head.

I have an anxiety disorder.
I like to talk. A lot.
Sometimes I’ll say a sentence
and not get to the point
for an hour.
Ranting’s like a pastime to me.
I’ll just ramble on and on.
Then stop myself.
“So, how’s your life going?”
Two seconds of silence,
Then back to whatever
show, or movie, or teacher
was annoying the hell out of me
whenever this conversation started.

I promise I don’t do this because I
like to hear myself speak.
On the contrary, actually.
I hate it. I hate my voice. I hate my words.
But I can’t face the silence.
Because whatever I say out loud
is a million times better
then the voices in my head.

“Shut up.”
“They don’t care.”
“You forgot to do this.”
“Remember that one time
you said that thing
freshmen year.”

I have an anxiety disorder.
I have ADHD.
I’ll have OCD if I get worse.

And if I could flip a switch
and it would all go away,
I would
in a heartbeat.
Snap my fingers and move to
a deserted island without any
people to judge my every move.
But then I’d be left with the
thing I hate most.
Quiet.

hurrah, hurrah!
cue to cheers!
for the long writing program
has ended.

quite a journey it
has been!
spilling out words
squinting at pages
and conquering the
flame breathing dragon
in the very end.

so hurrah, hurrah
huzzah, huzzah,
it's over!

Falling in love is more like living in a apocalypse . Love is dead and you was the disease that brought me there. Just like Falling is not a volunteerary action being zombified isn't either. When you broke out of your containment you infected my world and instead of looking for my friends I looked for you. When I saw you, all I wanted was you. Every limb, ligament, and being of you. The more I'm with you the more I change. I'm losing my mind. Day 7, My mind is gone, wait when did I start writing a apocalypse diary. Wait am I talking about falling in love or about becoming one of the walking dead. Day 8 they're both about the same but as long as I got you, my love, my disease I don't care. Day 9, you granted me your full disease the kiss of death. Day 10 I'm fully submerged in you, the sickness, I am you, I've finally landed from my fall to love that was inspired by you but yet I look left and right and you're not in site, you're actually flying high in the sky like I used to be. Day 11, you're no longer circling me from above like my halo. I blame everybody that said you were my vulture cause they never you were frail solution. Day 12 until eternity, I circle the world looking for your reasons or you, but like answers to a custom made quiz on google no results were ever found.

Bristled blue feathers
Like nature's forgotten child
She chirps to no one

I got to 40,000 words in this month
And I may finish NaNoWriMo
I may win
I think that
For once in my life
I've earned the right
To be proud
Of myself.

days or days of words,
leave me like a flock of birds
one by one.        find a place,
                        to come to rest,
and take me there, let me be,
but not alone,

i am so alone,
eyes observe with every breath,
every step, down streets filled,
my arms by my sides, hang tired
reaching for
the spectres,

relationships,
empty boats,
float by, no rope have i to throw,
nor harbour safe
or sage place to anchor, there be,
distractions like rocks, waiting for me,
YOU,

lay alike in wait, wish I, you would,
find me, for your softness,
would rip me bow to stern,
empty all the words i did yearn
to spill on paper, cover a screen,
with worlds,

in ink stained blood, of my own hand,
my write hand, type set for all to see,
when i am free,
and believe,

that dragonflies, win staring contests,
the story is important to tell, and will be read,
humbly God gifts us,
and we each in our turn,
not deserving or have earned,

finding, sharing, enough to care,
to give what you have,
trusting, rusting away,
from the inside out,

rain drops pelt the ground
from the sky make a sentence,
fill a cup with a paragraph,
throw myself to the ground,
soak them up as i roll around,
run inside and wring out
every drop on pages scattered
across the floor and watch
for words to appear, that
i will know what i am like,
                         really like,
so the lies i live will flee,
to the shadows and leave me,
so
you will
know that the one you love,
is a writer of stories,
a teller of tales,
not a scribe but a scribbler,
who places people and places,
and colours and conflict,
and lives and love
and cups of coffee black.

Thirty days hath November,
have i the will to write fifty
thousand and ninety-nine words,
from my heart,
from, my hands,
to tell a story.
Give God the glory,
i will, in thanks.