writing

A Letter To Myself

Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.

You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.

You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?

You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.

Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.

Poems · writing

Sciamachy

Walking down to school today—I hear one of those demons calling my name

Vapors whisper through my head

Sweetly they croon, wishing me dead

Daring me, they challenge, say, “what’s left to keep you here this way?” 

Knees buckle, I start to roam,

Thoughts race to every sickness I’ve ever known

Family ties, promises muddled, every tear fallen to the floor, puddled.

But when before I’d give into these secret fears,

Something stands within me, up out of the years.

Banishing this curse, this plight. 

Worries that keep me up at night 

They will never become me. I will never give in. 

I can still hear them whisper, “just let me win”

But bloodlines are a fickle thing

I’ll put an end to this suffering. 

Raise the chalice to my lips

I will not drink from it.