- so that I may face my truths

- because conceptualizing my thoughts forces me to push aside the veil guarding my

innermost self.

- when the world inspires me to create my own

Writing is visible organization of thought.

Writing is original representation of thought.

Writing is thought.

and sometimes, I write because I think too damn much.

@isthatphill - the question is simple but extremely effective, thank you for such a thought provoking challenge.

My head is swimming

in a sea of questions

created by my

salty tears.

The anguish

builds up,

fueled by regrets

and my greatest fears.

Sometimes as empty

as a book with no pages

Somestimes as full as poetry,

in my hyper stages.

Sometimes happy,

sometimes sad.

I’m normaly angry with myself

when I’m mad.

I step one foot wrong,

and forget about it.

But every time I trip up

I feel that pain again.

I’m stuck in a world

where most are selfish.

Even worse,

I can’t call myself selfless.

The world doesn’t care

about being fair.

It’s all like the lair

of a bear

who scratches all who is there,

and scrapes our mind

as well as our bodies.

I try to escape,

make myself better.

But every time I’m drowning

things just get wetter.

I try to learn

from my mistakes,

but I don’t seem to

have the courage

that it takes.

i want to sleep

but i can’t sleep a wink

do i need a shrink?

thinking in thoughts and lines

i need to take some time

off

i need to find an escape

a vacation

i need to find a way

to look away

i’m a castaway

stuck in the sea of my own thoughts

i’m on a dilapidated piece of wood

i’m on an iceberg in the middle of a flood

of thoughts

i’ve failed

now i’m drowning

in words

in thoughts

in letters

in colors

all mixing

i’m missing

the point of this madness

the end and beginning

is deliberately ditching me

i’m in the middle of nowhere

stuck

somewhere

out there

in there

my own brain

i can’t control

my feelings are all distraught

i’m caught in a knot

i’ve ought

to figure out that help is naught

i bought

myself into this mess

i’m a mess

in distress

call the ambulance

call the doctor

i need

to be looked after

because left alone

i’m like a dog

a stray

lost and wandering,

wondering

wanting

needing

some sort of help but receiving

none; nothing

because i’m nothing

i’m nothing

i’m nothing

n o t h i n g.

i need to stop thinking.

Try as you might,

you can't see the world

from a different set of eyes.

You're stuck with the ones you have,

doomed to see the same scene again and again and again.

Incapable of ever knowing what others see.

There are ways around this, of course.

Art, writing, reports.

They all lead to empathy,

understanding.

They allow the world to be seen, if only slightly,

from another point of view.

That is why I write.

to take advantage of this trait.

And let people see the world as I see it.

#poem

#moral

#writers

They say who you are

Is who you are when you're alone

But I don't feel anything.

I'm like a stone in rushing water,

Unmovable, slowly wearing down

And when I feel a chink in my armor

I pick it at, pulling it back

To reveal the layers hidden beneath,

So many layers, so many faces,

A paste-on smile for each day

And they pile up around me

But I keep on digging

Through the faces of a girl my parents want to see,

Through strange and foreign words my friends want to hear,

Thoughts tumbling onto the ground

Implanted by a society that screams for diversity

Yet dresses us all the same.

And the pile's so high I can't breathe

But I need to know the person hiding underneath it all

Because I don't know her anymore,

Just who she's suppossed to be.

Am I even there?

How can I know people

When I don't even know myself,

If I don't know if my thoughts are truly mine or someone else?

Why can I deal with other peoples' problems

But never my own?

How can I listen so well

But never hear myself over the sound of silence filling my head?

How do others feel so much,

Driven by the whim of emotion,

Yet my days pass in blurs of nothingness,

Dirty puddles in the cracks of broken asphalt.

You don't understand--

Who I think I am and who I am,

They're not the same

And I don't know which is which.

The girl buried under all these layers,

Too scared to live and too scared to die

Is not the same as the girl in the mirror.

I write to feel. To understand my emotions and to process them in a healthy way.

I write to understand. To gain perspectives of both the writer (myself) and the reader (as if reading from another point of view).

I write to channel creativity. To express myself in a different way. One that teaches me to be more particular and careful about the words that I use, which can be a challenge nontheless.

I write to fulfill a need for organization in my head. A need to decipher which thoughts and ideas deserve a place in this world and those in which I need to dismiss.

I write to remember. For a chance to some day review my old thoughts to compare to an older version of myself. For reflection on my life's journey of moments that I considered successful and those I did not.

Finally, I write to have a voice. A voice that sounds different from my own. One that is not interpreted by the way in which it resonantes in the air but the way each reader interprets it in their head.

i write to save myself.

constantly scribbling

to stop disappearing.

constantly talking

to avoid being boring.

trying to seem like i'm everything,

despite being nothing.

i write to keep sane.

when demons are angry,

when feelings get shaky.

a pen is a drug.

the flow of ink on paper, a dream.

the roar of words in mind, a stream.

i write for all the words unsaid,

for all the tears unshed.

i write for the exclamation,

for the narrative,

for the hidden explanation.

I write because it allows me to pour my heart and soul into something people can understand. I used to draw to express myself, but as I got older, the drawings started to turn into eraser smudges and faint traces of graphite signifying the mistakes. Pretty soon it became less about expressing myself and more about getting it right. Pencil sketches of lush landscapes and abstract things turned into dark lines and smudges, squiggles and crosses, it wasn’t art anymore, it was a disaster.

As I got older, my emotions started to become more and more scrambled. I struggled to comprehend what made me feel like laughing and crying at the same time. I struggled to understand what made it feel like my heart was going to burst. I tried explaining what I was going through, but I was at a loss for words; it was like I just forgot them and couldn’t remember them no matter how hard I tried.

How do you know what to feel when everything feels the same? You don’t. The familiar feelings flow through you, but you can’t name the faces. That’s why it’s so hard for me to express myself in the form of abstract ideas and symbols, why I struggle with speaking my reality, because I don’t remember what it is. So I write because I can unjam my brain and express myself in a way that is flexible. Because the names come naturally when there’s no need for perfection.

when the boat is lost at sea

the waves toss so relentlessly

the compass spins out of control

and endless storms all take their toll

the sea is written as smooth as day

a window pane of salty spray

the waves now words, black and white

they tower less with this new sight.

when the cracks begin to show

the pen seems too know just where to go

the weight on your chest is far too much

but a breath on a page is a reassured touch

writing helps me find myself

when peace seems on the highest shelf

out of reach, but still so near

I felt so far, I feel no fear

though writing may not heal all things

it helps express, like bows and strings

a melody inside your head

made my me, and by you, read.

And so I write my feelings here

and now my heart is always near

It’s not for you, it is for me

the doors were locked, but here’s the key.

----

And now for random prose appreciation:

THIS IS MY 100th PROSE ENTRY! YAY!!! GO ME! I have had prose for almost two months now, and I guess I would just like to say thank you? to prose? Yes, thank you, Prose. It was introduced to me by a few wonderful friends I have, and to be honest it has helped me so much. These last few months have been super hard for me, and usually I would just sit by myself and wallow in pity for days without telling anyone, but now I can wallow in pity and make you all listen! Heh heh... Well, actually, in all seriousness, I think it has really helped me to be able to express my worries to this wonderful community. Really, it helps so much to be able to get things off of my chest (Hence why I am writing this for this particular challenge). A few weeks ago someone told me that when they read my writing on prose it wasn’t really like talking to the real me. I am not totally sure what they meant by that, but I think that is why prose is really great. I think most things, if not everything I have posted, are about me and my personal life. Some things on here I have wanted to tell people for ages but haven’t been able to find the words. I still like to be very vague about it all because that way people can sort of leave it up for interpretation, but there is stories behind my posts. Getting that out, telling people, has been such an immense relief for me. Soooo thank you prose, for helping me find my voice, and thank you prose, for helping me find myself. This is an amazing website. :)

Love you all!!!

After a hard day,

I put all my anger

and saddness

into words.

Words that

make others

happier.

Let them know,

they are

not the

only one.

I go

somewhere else.

Where I can

never be hurt.

Where my life

is just another story,

waiting to

be told.

My struggles

just entertain.

My anger

never hurts

those who read.

My saddness

is touching

and my joy

is contagous.

It is a

sanctuary

where I am

never alone.

The worlds

of words

are my home.