writing is a struggle against silence
But my problem isn’t silence.
It’s blaring, soul-wrenching, blood curling screaming
inside my head.
How do I get it out. How do I put it down into to type.
I feel like I’ve lost it.
The eloquence. The beauty of writing my thoughts.
Our words. Our thoughts.
If we were stripped down and left in a desert, what would we have?
Nothing but thoughts and words inside our heads.
So what does it matter how it comes out?
A jumble mess of thought vomit spewing out,
lacking that perfect pentameter and punctuation
Just do it. Just say it. Just write it.
What oh what will people say? What will they think?
This poor girl with all her problems and her sad life and her poor dying mother and her poor fucked up family and her poor sad mind all jumbled up and upside down and inside out and spinning spinning into the darkness only to be drowned out by her 4am cries of self torment and self doubt and self deprecation and anger and sadness and anger and confusion and anger and loss.
Does it matter?
Who are these people who’s thoughts are more important than the ounce of sanity you feel after the release of your thoughts and words? Who are these people you care so much about?
Is it the friends or is it the former friends
Is it the family who already criticizes your every word and action
Is it the new people in your life
who you fear will label you as the girl with the dying mum
Is it the random acquaintance or the strangers
Why do any of them matter
Why do they matter over yourself?
Why why why why why
What is this society standard of self censorship in the matters of free thought and any emotion below happy?
So what if I’ve got problems? Who doesn’t?