I feel the darkness grow and stalk
                     the halls of my mind,
        whispering words of mockery,
                  words that I cannot help
                                but take to heart...

What if I am not good enough?
                                Am I a failure?
                   What if I can't do this?
                    Am I lying to myself?
What if I make a fool of myself?
                    Am I truly talentless?

  All of this runs around my mind,
       having me chase and bite and 
      pull my own tail as the darkness 
         laughs, loud, proud and cruel.
             Am I just wasting my time?
           Is the quill and ink meant for
                              someone like me?
           Am I even good at what I do?
                   I don't know what to do
                   I don't know what to think
                            All I know that 
                                            IT HURTS

It all hurts too much...
Far too much...

                       How I want to hide...

I am-

I am
Unpoetic, for
Isolation built from self-paved
Solitude has wilted my writing's
Possibility for sweetness
And sugar-faked beauty,
But poetry is crazed
For a taste of
Vast feelings,
So here 
I am-

Too Long

It’s been too long 
since I wrote 
 by writing I mean for me 
not so another human can fawn 
over my words 
but so that I can feel 
each emotion being poured 
into a hand crafted image 

It’s been too long 
since I stopped
to really think 
 be present 
in my skin 
 my heart 
I forgot what I was like 
when I stripped all else