What a
Magnificent
Mistake
It would be
To speak to yourself
So cruelly,
Lying to yourself,
Saying:
You are only worth
As much
As your productivity

Everything I write, everything I draw; delete

The things I create, I cannot complete

Is it being insecure or being lazy?                                                            ­                                                                 ­     

I don't know how to be a productive lady                    

I feel stupid                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                  

Since I can't anything executed

My work lives in the recycling bin

It's close in resemblance to a din

The backspace key is faded

My soul is abraded

I hate that I can't articulate

Does anyone else relate?

At least this poem is finished but it has no real end                                                              ­                                

I hope it shows what I intend

Fear had something to say.
And he wanted to say it now.  
So I paused and told him,
“Go on.”

He said,
“I know I’m weighing heavy on your chest;
I see sometimes it’s hard for you to breathe.”
“You know I can’t leave you alone;
So I at least want to give you this tip.”

“Breathe...”
“And work.”
“Be steady.
Don’t feel like you have to do too much at once.”

“Relax.
Let your chest be unburdened and unbothered.”
“Let it go.”
“And try to regain control.”

“You’re doing just fine.
Doing just great.
I know a few mistakes you’ve made
but you can get back on track and get it made. ”

“Try.
You can try again.
You might make it;
And if not, try again.”

“Get your work out there
And let it be seen.
Try and do that
And get back to me”

And I looked back at Fear
And told him “Sure.”
Turned my back on him
And began my work.

between the peel of the 6am
iphone chimes and the arguing
with cold water and hot in the
cascade of a morning shower
it's hard to think what the
world means exactly when it says
in father-frowning stern:
you there!—yes, you!
isn't it time you were
successful?

i've been trying for two years and i can't
i've been trying for two years and i can not write
i can not read a book
watching a movie became torture
do any minimally long task
is impossible
i can't do anything i used to
and i don't know what's happening
because i can not even
dedicate myself to music
and these are the things i like
they are pieces of what i am
and then i'm in doubt of what i am now
or, by doing nothing
would have i become a piece of nothing
and that's all i could be?

It clicks
It ticks
Away it slips
The sands fall through
The hand that grips
And every day
That you don’t do
Is one day less
That’s left for you
You’d pawn it all
To buy a cure
That can’t be bought
In any store
And every time you read this poem
You’ve lost a little more

Such a lack of inspiration cant be possible right?
Am I broken?
Wait, I'm thinking of motivation,
I cant remember not being inspired,
If i could just stand up and start moving, start acting on these thoughts, these ideas, these urges...
The resources are here, there is no fear, no shame, it all feels like a game,
When the perfect moment arises to execute, I have other things in my sights,
All of these questions need answers, and so a search is set,
But the sun starts to set and my job hasn't been completed,
hell I have yet to start, where do I begin?