"A Mess of Thought's"

The title is just that, I write out my many thoughts while I suffer from writers block again for the umpteenth time.

Take away all of the glitz and the glam, shower myself in flames of untapped rage. Take away the pretty face, face it I'll never be the same, can't keep the pace.

I'm handsome, I'm cute, I'm sexy, I'm beautiful. I can be any adjective you could use to describe me randomly and it would fit almost perfectly, didn't you know?

How'd it come to this? I feel like I sold my soul the very same day I was born, tore up my heart and used it as ransom for all the innate talent.

Now though I keep hitting a wall, how many more times can I keep writing about flaws!?

Is it my fault? Am I no longer speaking the truth, so am I just false?

I need this passion, I'm passionate about all of these ongoing passing thoughts. I wrote about my life, I write about my pain, I read it over again and again, revised it with my best friend, the pen.

Damn this all just comes out the same, I keep going on about my disdain for the negative emotions that I get but the only thing that truly fuels me to do my best are the very same things that fill me with hate yet also seem to make me tick.

Now I'd hate to paint a un-pretty portrait about myself but I guess that's just another poor trait of mine. When looking in the mirror I want to punch the hell out of that reflection staring back at me with the misused expression of glee.

"God damn it.. quit smiling!"

Oh dear... Look at what I've done, I've come undone the glass is punctured into my grasp, the fresh cuts in my fist the pain momentarily passed.

I c**k back and reel the jab in, the blood flashes as it splashes into the sink, in it goes. There goes my emotions and like an ocean it gets engulfed by the furious waves of sporadic motions.

Losing my mind as any In.sane.man. Would after dealing with these dark clouds for far too long, not very keen on being this way but still I, act the King.

I have been struggling a lot lately whenever I try venting all rhythmically, I am a lyricist but before that, beforehand I am a realistic individual with grounded logic but grand fantasies while I day dream needlessly.

Words are getting hard to make them appear up out of thin air, feel my cheek bones become thinner due to loss of appetite, powerful diction but in addition take away my ink pen and I get an inkling that I am left as nothing less other than powerless.

This poetry.. I need it, it's therapy. I don't know what to say if I lost the ability to write quite like I do, hard to really chew. I don't even understand how I do it, I simply grab a blank page and write until I can not. They say talent can't be bought.

It's my canvas, my blank slate but what happens when you get to creating as many creative curative's as me?

Suddenly you're own worst enemy. So many times I write something pitch perfect, I pitch it out to myself out loud and now it doesn't sound like I wished so I whisk the paper ball away into the wastebasket. Swish.

Not good enough, I can do better I say. People criticize me critically on how I write "dark" and "moody crap." I should write something more cheerful and act like a sap. Like a shark I am in the prowl for the kill. I'm mentally ill. People honestly think I like being this way.. Why?

Why would you even have that thought? Do you actually believe that I like not being happy? Do you think I like not being able to smile and mean it? I don't write about my depressing life because I like it.. Naw, I write because I have depression and it's getting harder to fight it!

I do not know how to deal with this pressure, it's getting to me.. It's pressing in against my temple, not a man of religion but if it took away my want to click the trigger in, if that shot out the doubt and not my brain well then I'd welcome it with arms wide wholesome just open minded.

It's not that I don't believe in the unknown it's just that I don't think we ought to know what to call it. Something bigger than us is out there for sure but should we really have a religious perspective upon it made by holy congregations and translated scripture by men?

The wonderful thing about writing poems is that it doesn't necessarily need a real sequence of stories which works wonders for me because at this turn of events my scribe mojo isn't fully back yet so I keep writing this pretty little mess.

I am not convinced nor am I content on this ending but nothing is coming to me, maybe it's just the lack of oxygen and sleep. Bled too much from the self mutilating, the feeling of hate between me and myself and I is mutual at least. Good to see.

Eyes are darkening as I keep writing, typing up the text to a meaningful message. Tourniquet wrapped around my wrist, I did it again.. My fear is in the question.

"Damn.. Will I be able to find the will to pick up this pen again..?"

Author's Note

Just writing my thought's out. Please do tell me what you thought, haha.

Reviews

[lostnstars]

Yes. I believe that you'll be able to find a will to pick up the pen and write again and again. I love how raw the writing is, it doesn't feel like i'm reading any poem, it feels like i'm listening to you just telling me your "messy" thoughts.
I hope you're doing a lot better and i hope everything is doing good. I do wish you keep on writing, even if you don't post them-is good enough for me because as you said, it's therapy.
You can message me on here anytime, sir_anonymous :))
You're amazing at writingggg thats why you need to keep writing more okkk
-lostnstars xx

[Sir_Anonymous]

I did just that, this was written six months ago after all. I rely heavily on my emotional state for inspiration but I also tend to never try to only rely on inspiration, that aforementioned lighting in the bottle moment to occur most of the time I'll just freestyle to myself until I say a sentence that sounds good then I jot it down and write a poem based around that one sentence.

Yeah, my poetry all started due to not knowing whom to tell of my plight. I stood out from the crowd but I was also very personal, I disliked and still do to this day dislike being tiptoed around because I feel bad. I despise that fake sympathy people will give just for the sake of it. Pity is also something else I hold disdain for as I'm rather prideful. So with that and no one else I felt to be well abled to just listen to me vent I chose to pick up the paper and pen.

Sincerely, Sir_Anonymous