PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I used to think I could be a great writer. I thought if I suffered enough or, I don’t know, suffered and harnessed that suffering I could turn it into a beautiful masterpiece. I thought I could turn all this pain and angst into a work of art.

But I couldn’t.

I keep trying to find out what I really want and who I really am but the longer I keep searching the more I’m pretty sure that it’s not really a thing you decide on, it’s just a series of decisions that sometimes get lucky.

And I guess that’s what’s really terrifying; the person I am depends so much on the circumstances I’m in and it’s not like I control those circumstances.

I’m so sad and I’m so tired. I always feel like I’m one bad day away from blowing my brains out all over somebody’s wall. How do you cope with that, who teaches you how to cope with that? Or do you just put on a mask and wear it like a happy face until you’re dead?

I thought I was strong enough to make this great life for myself, or worse, I thought I deserved this great life inherent to some ‘inner strength’ that was so clearly manifest in my life.

But… I was wrong.

I haven’t had a home in two years; I haven’t had money in my bank accounts since November of last year. I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years and when I did have a boyfriend, we were both closeted, so does it really count?

But I had a good day today, I think. The sun was warm and even though the temperature is low and the neighborhood’s rough, I took a walk to the gas station to get a dollar-cigar. It was nice. I listened to music, I smoked on the porch of the abandoned house across the street. I saw a buttercup, a lone, singular buttercup with a lone, singular blossom growing between the street and the porch. It was funny, I’d never seen it before.

I guess this is where I’m at right now; alone in a house that I don’t own. I’m paying rent under the table, so my name isn’t on the lease. It’s just another stop on this endless, exhausting journey to nowhere.

But maybe that’s the point; maybe it is a journey to nowhere. Maybe the ‘another stops’ are the point of getting up in the morning. Maybe sleeping all day and not having a job is okay, if that’s the stop you’re on. Maybe hustling and trying to set up a life isn’t where you’re strongest right now. And if you have friends who will take care of you, within reason, while you build your strength, maybe that’s okay too.

I feel scared constantly. I’m scared of everything; loud noises, strangers, thunderstorms, dying in a car crash, everything. I’m scared of being alone, I’m scared of opening up, I’m scared of demons and of entropic heat death. I can’t let go of how afraid I am of the world around me, even the made-up parts of that world. And when I do finally address how batshit terrified I am of everything, no one takes it seriously. And when I contemplate on my fears, I just get more afraid; I can’t overcome them, I can’t even face them.

I don’t know what I want. When I close my eyes I see fuzzy pictures of people walking through doorways, like really bad analog TV reception. They don’t go anywhere, they don’t want anything, but I’m afraid of them. I feel paranoid and fragile.

I guess I do know one thing that I want; I want to close my eyes and shut off my mind and just relax. No fear, no expectations. Just rest. Inner peace.

But that kind of gets back to what I believe about the ‘inner’ self. It doesn’t exist. It’s just the mirror we hold against our actions, not a distinct or separate ‘hidden’ person. It’s just what we think about the things we’ve done. And it’s shaped by our actions, probably. Or it’s just there, arbitrary and imposing. Because, if it were up to me to stop feeling so horrible, why wouldn’t I stop feeling horrible? I don’t enjoy this bleakness; I can’t feel anything, I can’t connect to anybody. I just hate myself and it feels like I’m being burnt up by that hatred. I’m scared of myself, or of that monstrous thing living inside of me.

(I know there’s nothing really living inside of me, minus billions of bacteria and some other microbial organisms)

I’m afraid, I’m so afraid. It’s ruining my art, it’s ruining my day, and it’s ruining my life. I can’t keep feeling so afraid and I don’t know how to stop because I don’t know exactly what I’m afraid of and I don’t know how to get help.

I’m tired; my eyes are starting to burn. I’m going to get my blanket and lie down on the couch because  it’s comfier than my current bed ( which is trash bags full of clothes that the last roommate ditched when she left us behind).

And maybe I’ll steal some food from fridge or some liquor if anybody’s been trusting enough to leave it out. I’ll feel really shitty about it and then go to sleep. Or not.

Who fucking knows.