I’ve always wanted to be a little more creative in my stories, but I’m so fascinated with humanity as is. The way we weave our own stories creates life and creates energy and motion. Change is developed by each choice we make and I just think that the bees knees. I think that’s where a lot of my fear has stemmed over the years. I certainly have specific events that affected me, but they come from the uncontrollable choices of others. I guess I’ve never been able to trust anyone. I don’t fully, truly, and without a doubt trust anyone. Except for Keith, he’s the beacon of light that pushes me to experience outside of keeping myself safe. Or just surviving. Because I want to feel, to taste, to cry.

I know that every day presents an opportunity for everything to change. Every day… that’s crazy. And every single person, or even a drop of rain can affect the outcome of my story. And I don’t have one say. CRAZY. Overwhelming. Beautiful and tragic and I can’t get enough. I’m tired of being on the outside looking in and I deserve to enjoy as much of it as I can. I want to build my own worlds and put my characters down different paths. I want to see where my mind can take me. That’s a whole other thing – the shit our minds come up with. Which is kind of what I meant by “more creative”. People develop technology that lives purely in story form but is completely understood. Sometimes mimicked into reality. CRAZY. These are the things that blow my mind. I want to explore new species, cultures, and creations. We get to just make everything up! It’s never-ending.

I don’t want to die bored. I don’t want to die tired, or even fat and happy. I don’t want to die when the cold wind slaps my body to the ground, my world upside down. I refuse to die still, or dried out with a permanent frown. I just can’t die tonight.

I want to die on fire. Electric. I’m going to explode my worth in all directions. I plan to light my world ablaze and die alive.

So I will take what I want, and do who I please. I’ll eat the flavors of every corner and always pull over to touch the water. I do not take the easy route, but I will take my time.

And after every mile I’ll absorb every experience, until I bubble and boil and burst my way out.

I deplore the word anxiety

But I want to say it with conviction,

Belt until I’m heard.

So I do, and now I hate the sound of my voice.

No matter the word,

It will fall under the umbrella of why

I’m not good enough.

For me, it means I hide from my mind sometimes,

No amount of expression can truly quell the simple fact

that I am indeed Anxious.

I will write it down.

Come up with a way to show, and not tell –

Possibly tolerate this version of expression.

But all of the metaphors have dried up.

Every last one of us is anxious.

All caged, imposters.

We’re all flies repeatedly thumping into windows,

Peering into the other side, seeing a reflection of ourselves we don’t believe in.

Most of all, we can’t find the crack left open for us to come in with the wind.

Only until we do, and then we’re left feeling silly.

With no answers for when we find ourselves back outside.

Hills so steep the bag toils the pavement

Imprinted path, stamped deep into the jute...

Surface voids run deep, till’ the pigeons claim it home.

Nothing ever finished.

Alleyways tight, to forge companionships.

Mapped on the bottom of my eco-friendly weight.

Flyposting extolled,

Verbosity, critically acclaimed.

A collection of small town dreamers.

Impressive determination to be honest.

Oh to be marked with this energy.

To float amongst the history, and land in the preposterous pretention.

Hypocritical, really.

I feel an innate energy when someone notices me from across the room. I like to soak up that energy, let it seep through my brain until these made-up scenarios feel like memories. It’s a dangerous game to mourn the smell of a person you’ll never meet.

I like to imagine what they wear to bed, how the fabric feels over the flesh they usually keep to themselves. What would it feel like to run my tongue along the cinched cotton around their waist? I play this game with myself. My own version of classic people watching. What are they having for supper tonight? Are they married, or a man-whore? Then the boring questions. What are their hopes and dreams? Do they have kids? Are they holding hands out of habit?

I want to know that other people get the shitty end of the stick, too. Either way, we’re all meat sacks seeping our shit onto the planet. To an extent, it’s true that we hold little to no power. I'm not prone to argue about the power we have, or the societal fuckery that we’ve had to survive. I’d rather bask in the sunlight we don’t pay for.

For a long time, I was painted with guilt by the immeasurable pressure to do better than my childhood. I would play this game with myself as the main character. My raw soul clung to happily never-afters. Envisioning futures all the way down to the gritty details. I found myself obsessed with the mundane activities of a life I could never reach. Balancing the beliefs I feel others have about me. If I obsess over the inner thoughts I’ve put on others, will I ever really be my own version of happy? Can I stop asking these questions long enough for reality to hit?

I've crawled my way out to a point where I see who I really am. The fantasies fade, and life just is. My hair is a brownish red, not 'cymbidium petals landing on my shoulders'. Eyes, just green, not 'admirable serpentines'. I don’t know if I like this person. The egregious energy I wasted has recharged into a woman I'm just getting to know. If I'm admitting this is who I am, how do I stop judging her? If someone spoke their genuine thoughts, what would they say?

"You're pretentious, and egotistical one day; humbled with self-hatred the next. You walk the earth with outward empathy, but we all know how you really feel. We know you question every move, and overanalyze each situation. We know you don’t let yourself trip up. You contemplate your worth when old guilt creeps up. If you make one mistake, we’ll see it on your face forever. Better be careful."

When I reached my peak, I likened myself to a Magellan of the arts. The first discoverer of Chinua Achebe. A radar for jazz, and sad people in need of unsolicited advice. This unnecessary jargon worked like a charm. I became a person others sought out in need of inspiration. Making the most of life, making the most of even the boring parts of life. I accepted our existence for what it is. I’ve admitted I am happy. That energy brought forth everlasting love. I'm too happy.

My dad died after cutting contact for four years.

And when anxiety found me this time, my guard was down, and I didn’t deserve all I'd worked so hard for. They’d changed their minds about me. They screamed the opposite. My words are those of growth and happiness. My thoughts are those of agony, and imposter syndrome. How dare —

(inspired by Joshua David, a new favourite among many)

We don't read poetry slow enough.

We don't wade into the depth of each other's souls.

We tumble, or more so heave our stupid little hearts over the cliff.

It feels like we're flying.

And for that split moment, at terminal velocity, maybe that's the closest humans get.

Maybe utter hopelessness is worth the risk.

The glory.

For some, their souls are clutched by 'the one' and they either tether themselves in ecstacy, or go down together.

Yet the ricochet hurts, and every jump takes a new parachute, convincing yourself it's worth it this time; takes longer and longer, and we start to close our eyes.

We don't look both ways before we cross the street anymore.

I think we hope we're hit, to feel something again; to blame someone else for our aching bones. Without assessing the damage we cause in our wake.

But what was I supposed to say?

You gave me yourself by taking it away.

Why am I mourning something that never was?

What fresh power the word “you” has in every strike of creativity.

My mamma told me artists are born full, or starve forever.

Joyous lives are pre-selected.

Choose wisely, while I drink away the memories of the stories I didn't write.

Why is it so hard to write about the ones we love, while we're loving them?

Why does "joy" feel taboo on my tongue?

I want to express myself, without defending my pain.

You spend your entire life surviving a monster,

only to wake up an imposter.

I identify as such.

Refusing to commit because I'm still digging.

Or climbing, or relearning how untrue her words really were.

How she never found herself.

Or maybe, like a blind date, she got there, didn't like what she saw;

and drove to the liquor store.

And here I am, addicted to nicotine and self discovery.

Afraid to admit I might like who I am.

I sat alone today, in the first memory we never made.

In the place that blossomed an idea,

Of what we never were.

How enlightened was I,

Wretched deception.

I’m not soaking anymore,

Bloated; I detonate.

Months of disregarded inspiration,

At bay, consciousness coated in depression.

Mental confinement breeds dollops of vision,

Mandible tension; single sentences dribble down my lower lip.

Mind unloaded, creative rudiments litter my notebook,

I strike a match and let my spirit burn.

He puts me at ease.

The part that makes me so selfish, so mad..

So desolate in my emotions is that you protrude my thoughts.

He makes me so happy now.

You don’t have any right

I don’t have the right.

I’m saddened by the loss, sure.

But I’m angrier, that after everything I’ve done for you,

You put your dirty hands on me.

Called me a child,

30 times;

At least.

You sounded ridiculous.

I tried to stoop to your level, to stand my ground

Until you passed out from intoxication.

More beer in the fridge.

Your roommate said his girlfriend was uncomfortable around you,

So you came into the bedroom,

Took me by the neck,

Let the spit seep from your mouth while you slewed your vile insults,

And promised to fuck me senseless after you had “one more” smoke.

A hearty smack for good measure.

I don’t drink a lot, the whisky lulled me to sleep,

You ran out of smokes.

I’m in therapy, and painfully self aware

I know that one shouldn’t have to earn happiness.

Yet I’m so fucked up,

So riddled in trauma

That a friend said to me once

Every time you open your mouth, you tell a sad story.

I was just reminiscing.

My imagination ran fervently. My grandparents' old RV parked behind their house was the perfect place to play as a child. The small kitchenette was my domain, I’d play house and reset the table again and again. The sun would beat down hard on the tiny tin box, so I’d prop the door open most days to let a breeze in. One particular afternoon, the high was 40°C. Nan said I should stay outside that day, but I had imaginary children to feed. Sneaking into the RV, I let the door close behind me to remain inconspicuous. But Nanny was right, it was too hot. My skin began to burn and my head felt light. I tried to escape but the rusted latch was broken and stuck. I screamed and thrashed until Nan came to the rescue. Tugging with all her might, the door flew back and banged across her forehead, cutting the skin open. I held the tissue against my grandmother's forehead while she drove us to her doctor's office that afternoon, and watched as he stitched my hero back up.