Confessions of a “Writer”
a poem
March 17, 2017 – 17 years old
I’ve never called myself a writer
Because that would mean I would have to call myself something
I would have to shout out to the world declaring who I am
And I was always an unsure person
Stricken with indecisiveness, always changing who I am and what I stand for
Saying I’m a writer would mean that I’d have to be sure of something in myself
And that was an unfamiliar feeling
Undoubtedly knowing what I am and what I want from this world shed light on the very unknown that I had been running from for so long
November 19, 2020 – age 21
But I’ve seen what running from yourself can do to the human spirit
I’ve strayed from the path for years now
Going in karmic circles following artificial lights and wild nights masked in ‘good times’
Acting as if and not as I am has costed me parts of myself I’m still fighting to get back
Time elapses, but pain from regret and longing of what could’ve been simmers and sizzles with heat
The heat of the truth that is, gets thicker and hotter when you try and pressure cook it
The feelings grow more and more uncomfortable in the body as you compromise your truth for temporary thrills and illusionary comfort
All energy cannot be created nor destroyed
So this time, I will transmute it to work with my highest good
And I’ll be damned if I allow myself to be condensed for another minute
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Thank you for reading and take care!
♥♥♥