Breathing is like pen to paper—like a paper plane flying with writing hidden inside a single page—
Who will get the last say?
Who will find the message left behind?
Maybe it will land in the water and become a boat holding all the hope an entire ocean can hold—
Maybe it will go its own way on a journey to a new place.
Maybe it will find me someday.
To the teachers, writers and poets who gave me a voice.
You gave me words to speak,
A pencil to write,
And a heart to recognize
The beats and rhythms in my mind.
You gave me a fresh breath for life,
And made me a free man.
You took me to places
With pieces and pages—
And I wanted to thank you.
Thank you for the words that changed my course,
And gave me a sense of direction again.
Thank you for teaching me lessons to give to my future children.
You gave me a reason to be,
And you gave me poetry.
I am scared of a lot of things.
I’m scared of ISIS, terrorism, disease, and people hiding in the dark, waiting for people like me. I am scared of him. I am scared of being alone, and having no one to go to. I am scared of disappointing my parents, getting pregnant before I get married, and not making it into grad school. I am scared of school. I am scared of losing everything, and dying before I get the chance to live,
But I love running outside in my bare feet, and making up words to songs. I love driving when everyone else is sleeping, and pretending like I am the only person left in a small country town with a name no one seems to remember. I love talking about nonsensical things with friends, and drinking underneath the stars that fall along the river.
My fears will not stop me from walking outside, and breathing in freshly cut grass, or the crisp mornings lining my windows. My fears will never leave me, but my love for life, and for people, will fuel enough excitement and energy to search for more.
More than black and white, and more than memories left behind in pictures.
I am writing this blog so I can continue to move past the darkness pressing into my sides, cutting into my lungs, while I look into my past. I want to breathe again, but first–I need to start from the beginning. Or maybe from the middle.
This is me.
This marks the first day I left work-stress and lack of balance at the door.
Today was different.
The sky opened up and let out the deepest downpour–
Like the earth was saying, “It’s time to let it go…”
But I didn’t know how, so I closed my eyes
And listened as the peaceful sound of rain
Washed the stains of my memories away.
What does it mean to let go?
Nature makes it look so easy,
But my mind likes to complicate things.
I’ve let this ball of insecurity stay in the pit of my stomach
As words like “job security” and “responsibilitiy”
Weigh me down in this back pack filled with bricks and blank books.
I want to take it off, dig a hole, and tuck it away from the rest of the world,
Because no one deserves to feel the burden of that weight
Or see the damage it has caused.
I feel a loss—
But loss sounds a lot like lack.
Lack of security
Lack of confidence in my identity
And lack of consistent thinking,
Because I am losing a sense of self
By searching for belonging in someone else.
Loss sounds a lot like help.
I want someone or something to help me find the words I need
To validate my emotions and expression
Because I am used to asking permission
For those things.
Loss sounds a lot like death.
Like something in me has died, and I can’t find myself
My words and movements are repetitions I use to look like everybody else
Too afraid or scared to say a word that will turn into an argument I am not ready to fight
Loss sounds a lot like my thoughts,
A mixture of chaos and movement,
In a constant wave of up and down
As I try to figure out what is
And what is not.
Loss is myself.
I haven’t figured out how to see myself through a lens that isn’t clouded by “good” or “bad” judgments.
I haven’t felt the self esteem rising through my bloodstream to remind me of my wholeness.
The only piece of me that feels confident is expressing my lack of it in my writing.
Maybe it’s because of the thoughts I have
That drown out what is real,
And what is not–
Maybe it’s my mouth replacing the air with water,
Heavy in my lungs,
Afraid of what will come up
Once I try to connect the words in my mind
To the sounds in my throat–closed.
I want to protect my heart from the heavy weight I hold
When I see you,
But I’ve realized I can’t see you.
How can I see you when I can’t see myself,
Or when I look around and find no familiarity in my surroundings?
Grey is now permeating everything I see—
So first, it starts with me.
I choose to remove the weight
And look forward to my day.
I focus on being present
When the past is pressing in on all sides,
Forcing me to hide.
I focus on having patience
When I feel wasted by
The people surrounding me on a daily basis.
I focus on communication,
And protecting my mind and my heart
from the forces around me asking me to change who I am
For them,
Because I am worth it.
I will say it over and over again,
That I am who I am,
Fallen and imperfect.
I love the cracks in my hands and freckles on my skin,
And the excitement I get from a small moment.
I ask nothing to forgive,
I only ask for a conversation,
Not a misinterpretation.
I ask for someone to see me past expectation.
See me as a living and breathing human who is prone to making mistakes.
See me as you would see yourself at the end of the day—
As a person.
Sometimes I smile out of habit.
I don’t notice when it’s dishonest,
Because I’m so used to convincing myself it’s true.
You can fake it so much that it turns into your reality,
Even when you are pretending.
But sometimes pretending seems more familiar to me than reality.
I continue repeating and hearing the sound over and over again—
Feeling the stretch across my skin—
Feeling the void of emotion—
“Please forgive me.”
My thoughts cry for forgiveness from this notion
That I will never be good enough to
Measure up and be the version of perfect
I want to see—
Or feel in my body.
Maybe perfection would give me peace,
Or maybe it would destroy me completely.
I need time to breathe
Or to time my breaths
By 1…2…3
But the counting creates a mood of apathy
and emptiness
Like I can’t stay awake like this—
And I’ve missed the reason
For methodically breathing
In and out.
It’s broken down for peace,
Not destructive thoughts
That beat up my heart,
But slow beats so I can stop and think,
And count to slow down every word racing
In my mind.
I want to stop hiding behind a glass wall.
I don’t want to wait for it to fall
Just so I can tip toe around the glass pieces
Holding distorted reflections of what I used to be.
Or how people see me.
1…2…3…
I don’t care what they think.
I care about finding the light behind the door I closed 4 years ago.
I care about holding time close as I think about the future I don’t know.
1…2…3…
I know what I need.
I need to stop thinking, keep counting, and move into the place that is meant for me.
I want to be free.
A Poet's Pen 