Tonight, I poured my
emotional mess on the sidewalks.
I watched it splatter onto the brick
walls next to me and into the cool
cement below my feet.

I let the anxiety take control, again.
I let it feast on my sadness and spew
out manifestations of angst and pain that only a mind such as mine could. But I suppose that's not the worst thing.

I feel like I'm failing again. I feel like I'm losing a piece of myself. I'm losing grip with what I need to be doing.

But who the **** even knows what that is anyway?

I sometimes wish
I could simply light my
life on fire...a bursting,
roaring eruption of power.

I search for strength and
opportunity, naturally. But
it doesn't feel like enough
anymore. Not for me.

Maybe it's depression, they
say. It's a phase, a bad day,
a road bump in the path.
But what if it's not?

What if it's perpetual?
A continuing state of on
and off...slowing coming and
going from emotion to emotion.

I guess, in a way, that's
life, right? Uncertainty.  
Madness. Destruction and then
rebuilding from what once was.

Life is a perpetual state
of confusion, along with
a few other ingredients.

It's hard to nail down
what my personal recipe
is missing at the moment.

I feel as though if I were to
enter into the oven as is,
I would be the throw away batch.

You know, of course:
the brownie pan with the sunken
warm goo center.

Not bad, just ill formed
and underdeveloped
like myself.

But each day, I walk
and take one step
like mom always says.

It seems as though those things
I took for granted so much before
are the things I miss the most now.

Like waking up next to you
for nearly a week straight,
hair a mess, but heart in place.

Or you. Your stupid, ******* humor
which made me feel just a little more special than anyone else here.

I could write lines and lines
about different yous and she's,
but then it would lose track.

It's about me, finding my place
somewhere other than in sadness
or work or in being busy.

Because there's so much more
than that to this story.

You ask who's around
and who I should go and see,
but it's time by myself and that's
all it really ends up as: me.

When you're not around
and I'm away from home,
I stumble through each day
wondering why I'm all alone.

There are a few here and there
that I spend some time with,
But it's really only you that
I care to be around and kiss.

Don't get me wrong, my work
means so much to me.
But how can I possibly be happy
when one is my army?

Cliche and unimportant:
the worries of a perpetual
spaz who cannot let go
of "her control" of the world.

Because, for her,
reality has a firm place
in her calloused palm,
while she truly plays
puppeteer to the hand dealt
to her each day.

With every interaction,
emotion, situation and the like,
she's pushed farther.
Farther away from "the plan"
and closer to where
she should be.

Why, then, is it so bad?
Why, then, does anxiety creep?
When control, fickle like the weather,
escapes so easily from her grasp.

Is this the story you want to be a part of?

All of the mess
the upsets
the tears and tissues
the irrationalities
the humanness and flaws
that stitch together
this imperfect person.

I am me.
Unfortunately.
But it is who
I will always be.

I'm hoping you're okay
with this humanness of me.
The awful and beautiful things
that make me the girl I was
and the woman I hope to be.