so much of me is tired of writing poorly

but another much of me knows I need these

pretend drafts to pile up until I use real

energy to write.

I don’t know who I’m apologizing to.

Maybe me. Maybe you.

Pride, perhaps. But that would indicate to be proud. What do I have to proud of? Who am I to assume my bad drafts are not just another regular piece of mine?

Should I cry? I don’t know. My eyes don’t care anymore. But somehow I still see potential in a me that maybe no one else has ever even see before.

Asking for approval? Wanting acknowledgement?

Oh, the qualities of the useless.

What is this, then? I ask to myself.

Is my pride from love or hate?

How arrogant to assume anyone’s reading at all?

But I am, I say.

I’m reading my writing and shudder at the nonsense. While other me deep down inside says, keep going. It’s almost time. We’re getting closer with every line.

I’d pick windows.

Maybe I’d regret that but

I’m too tired to think about the thought of what I’d think after having thought which I’d have chosen.

Is it interesting that my thought is that I need windows because I need light but if I had only doors I could leave to go outside and see it?

Light has such power.

Or is it darkness that pulls the strings?

For me, the hero is light and the darkness, the villain.

But if I’m honest, I know they’re both one in the same. I know they’re both me.

abandoned

like a balloon

(once it’s purpose is fulfilled),

and always early enough

that it’s helium

still let’s it float away.

what about the air filled ones?

what about those balloons?

the ones with carbon dioxide

the ones with breath

the ones with us inside them

they don’t get to float away

they don’t get to be abandoned

even if they want to be.

The woman inside the flower said she couldn’t breathe because there were so many fumes.

I said get out.

She said why.

I said you have to breathe.

And she said no I was actually inviting you in.

And I said but I want to live

and she said don’t we all?

And I said she was making no sense.

then she said isn’t that what humans do? Nonsensical creatures! Begging for breath and betting on death. But flowers…they resurrect. Every single one is a Jesus we forget to pray to.

Suddenly, I realized, this door was an opening and the fumes inside were a breath of fresh air. I realized this woman was just me in a life I thought unreal, unattainable, unfair.

I don’t care about the name of it.

I don’t care if it’s revenge, after all.

I don’t care if it’s not the justice I want it to be.

I don’t care if it’s not a poem.

I just want you to feel it.

And I want it to really fucking hurt.

I don’t care about anything except

you feeling pain.

when I tell them what I read about

and what I write about.

my bright colors,

they can’t believe I express them in such darkness.

my light air,

they can’t believe I breathe in such smog.

when I tell them who I am

and what I feel,

they can’t believe I’m really me.

And I say I know I know,

I actually agree.

I can’t read big words today and probably couldn’t yesterday either but I didn’t come across any in my day of useless mundaneness.

Maybe I’ll write some tomorrow but maybe I won’t. Everyday is the same even when it’s different because life has lost meaning and I don’t know how much more I can mean that without showing it out loud