If you saw
yourself
in my lines
then
yes,
that poem
was about
the
fictional
you
in the eyes of a
Writer

Poetry, for me, is like ****.

I get to watch events unfolding in front of me on my computer.
I can imagine how something will play out.
My imagination can run wild while viewing it.

Poetry is like **** for me.
Something to enjoy on my screen.
Something to give me a thrill.

Poetry is like **** for me.
Something I like to dabble in alone.
Something I fill my phone and laptop with.
Something I consider intimate.

Poetry, for me, is like ****.
I like to imagine myself in a small part of both.

But in both situations,

I'm getting ******.

I'm drawing inspiration from the negative,
my attention biases towards certain phrases,
they leap out to me and I thought by now they'd be the ones to represent happiness and hope;

But still internal unrest is at the forefront,
And I still feel incongurance.

Because to relate to the positive I may as well take a syringe to a dry sponge,
I draw nothing but air,
but I guess at least im drawing now and that's progress.

But there's only so many times I can ventilate the same air without questioning,
why my head magnetises certain stimuli in a world so far from bare?

I can't explain, but to use optimism, hope, love and success as my muse feels unnatural, it's strained,
l am unworthy of it.

I let my mouth take the lead,
bypass my brain so I write how I feel, it flows without me.

And maybe its a Fruedian slip in the form of a sentence,
but im scared if I slip too far i'll drown and in my sponge I will suffocate.

So I speak without thinking let my brain take the stage and im back,
back circling the same topics again,
maybe in life I repress them and this is their escape I just dont know.

Because when I write about my excitement for the future or how I dont want to leave your arms or how you personify comfort I feel obnoxious,
 I feel niave
What is it about me that feels so uncomfortable,
so exposed,
so vulnerable,
to say i'm happy?

A angry fire rages on in the corners of my black pupils yeilding it into reflections that shimmer light upon old coffee colored paper like a light house.
My old hands, cracked, and withered like an old crispy flower lay upon my tan paper, vibrations consume my hands.
There in my head is a river called creativity and it is where I get my power.
In the dead of dawn there glows a  golden ray of sun filling my sweat beads lodged between the wrinkles on my face.
My pen is alive as I am too.
I do not write.
My pen does
And the universe tells it what to do.