PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It's been so long since I've attempted to write about getting better.

For in the same breath that I assured my father that I was going to be okay, I choked on my own vomit and melted into the bathroom floor.

So, when I'm writing this garbage about acceptance with myself.

I can't help to feel like a hypocrite as I organize my priorities and put my well-being at the bottom of the shelf.

It's haunting because I've been in this distancing daze for years, but the triggers are so ripe and intense when they find me.

How can I tell anyone to look up or relax... when I am holding hands with bloody knuckles and smiling with a mouthful of decay.

If I even tried to compile a list of what's eating at me, I'd probably just eat it first and throw it up and hope that what I had to feel disoriented about was good enough to be considered depressed. An excuse I need to pardon myself from the chaos I've subjected you to. The name for myself when manic is busy, when numbness is too conflicting to bare. 

For even if I had tears in my eyes, they would need to have a viable reason for being there. When they tell you that you're doing this to yourself and in anger and in rage I beg you not to stare for my perception of my reflection and neutral demeanor aren't tangible things I can unravel into an excuse because they're so tightly bound and secured to my ego and sickened by the asymmetry  of my face and the sound of my own voice.

How could I tell you that it isn't anything except for the fact that I am and will be. 

That I honestly cannot picture myself a year from now, that I couldn't tell you if I'd even be here.

While I reach out to others and help them find their way, I refuse to apply what I believe to myself because I am so incredibly undeserving.

Blindly reaching for my incentive to leave behind the comfort of self-doubt , and am I really suprised when cannot find a reasom enough to fill the spaces I've dug out.

I take a disgusting amount of time to decorate my ship and send it out to sea and hope that it sinks.

And pity myself every night for not being the person that if I didn't do this, I could so easily be.

I've cried myself to sleep, high on things I couldn't name.

Staying up and over-processing, and towards the morning I feel what resembles okay.

So, this is me writing something about getting better.

I hope that someday I can say that I have.

But for now, if I wrote something about getting better.

I might never write a conclusion.

Won't even know how to start.