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5/3/18: Hidden Pain

What if my writing is only fueled by pain, depression, and fear? As I get better at dealing with my depression, I may lose the red eye who cast everything in such a terrific color. Why am I worried about this? I didn’t write a poem yesterday. I can’t write one right now. I must be overreacting. Look, see, I’m writing at this moment. Oh listen, there’s insecurity knocking!

 

4 Reasons Why to Go to Work

  1. Future me will have less work
  2. I’ll distract myself from this mental masturbation

 

I’m not proud of what I do. I want to tell people I’m a writer and let that be the dialogue that is “Andrea.” Gosh, things were so good and how they’ve somehow changed. Am I just making up reasons to be sad? Am I being dramatic?

 

Okay, game plan-hip hop music, get dressed, pack lunch, get outside before I change my mind.

 

 

Poem: Writer’s Block

I can be a great writer

I feel it banging on the door of my skull

Trying to get down here to the tip of my pen

But goddamn when I really want it

It bars the door with a two-by-four and

All the begging won’t make ‘em come out

 

You know what brats like most?

Snacks-Like articles poems YouTube videos and podcasts

You know                           distractions

A release of self-contained pressure

Poem: Friday Night

hot and cold

chill and wavy

smiles come easier

so do tears

so does a wet wet and

wanting to hump the seat your ass is on

 

I keep telling myself I want to drink less

I keep pouring myself one more

 

it’s hard to cry when you don’t have a good excuse

life is a good excuse

alcohol is a better one

 

I don’t let it get out of hand

I have bills to pay and a responsible life to live

 

letting loose makes the ride a bit more exciting

compared to the drone of the nine-to-five

bumper-to-bumper sucky-fucky of the week

 

you know its true

so what if you get blackout drunk?

that’s what Gatorade and carbs are for

 

god, just feel it for once

let the water take you under and

feel the pulsing heart of the universe

I’ve felt it, its scary as fuck until you realize

the banging at the door is in your chest

 

it’s about you

look at yourself

who are you?

at the very least, you’re a beating heart

that’s a goddamn blessing

hug yourself and get drunk in the wave

Projection

One of my succulents didn’t bloom this year and I keep thinking about what I did wrong. Not about how the fickle weather, being migrated to a new pot with 6 other plants, or its life cycle effect the likelihood of a bloom.

But it was so close I could have just yanked the closed flower bud out of it and spread it butterfly with tweezers.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

I watered it on schedule, even a little less than necessary, to make sure I didn’t rot the roots.

I know nature does it own thing but it hard when you want something so much and you put so much mental energy into it and visualize what it’ll look like when it blooms, and how happy it will make you feel and taking pics and showing literally everyone you know like its your kid.

It is. They all are. Including the aloe in the kitchen. They are all the life I have in my apartment besides me. They are my best friends and they always have my back.

It isn’t about them. It’s about me.