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

Darkening

Lately feeling like a mistake

Sometimes unsure of how much I can take

How far I will go.

Dwelling on negativity, an activity that is completely exhausting to me.

And yet I’ve been asking myself: was I just another fantasy

To you?

Ever since you were acquitted

I’ve admitted to every single fallacy

All my overreactions, the stifling contingency

 My ability to stir up the dust, rub lemons into cuts, and make accusations that make no sense to anyone,

Let alone me.

I see things, too late now, that were wrong about me

That are wrong about me.

That’s not to say that you are perfect in comparison,

But no one deserves and no one should ever try to fix another person.

Now with the curtains closed and coffins shut, someone nearby singing the Final Cut,

I again struggle to stand on wavering feet

Looking out to the long road ahead of me. Well,

At least I finally have a clear path, somehow.