Morning’s Spiral

trying to figure how to restructure
preparing forever for a day that’ll never come

fit all things into one
attempting to be the person “I know I can be”

i’m tired of fighting, of trying, and battling me –
sore and rusty, i haven’t yet opened my eyes

it’s dark and then it gets worse, rumbling clouds over uncalm skies
every time I think it’s better, another wave comes

doesn’t everyone seem effective and together in the sun
but a burning starts, flaws radiate off my unholy skin

a whole world of anxiety trapped within
another day, another reason to try to begin

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The Fear

I hate myself too much to write. I feel a constant you-suck-age all around me, distracting me and withdrawing the energy from my carpal tunnel fingers.

Self-worth is the wildest roller coaster a person of any height can climb aboard. I believe in fantasy, and in the idea that even the crappiest piece of shit writing has value. I believe these things, yet my thoughts circle around characters and plot twists until they’re spinning in confusion – metaphorical turds in the toilet bowl that is my conscience.

It’s been too long since I’ve written, and when I think about it I get a sick feeling of failure mixed with anxiety in my stomach, akin to the face reddening nausea I felt before public speaking in seventh grade. I need to get back into it and I’m embarrassed that I haven’t. I’m terrified of people witnessing something I’ve created, and mentally incapable of overcoming the self-induced writer’s block.

Interesting, that. My anxiety about writing is the same as my pre-performance anxiety. The self-hatred that precedes and prevents actual action. The fear of reprisal that never – actually – coincides with anybody’s response.

When I was in maybe second or third grade, we had singing activities. I already knew there was a difference between talk-singing, or talking melodically – which is what most of us were doing – and singing, actual singing when your mouth opened wide, your eyes closed, and music – however amateurish – slid out of the back of your throat.

Many students chose to talk-sing for these activities because they didn’t know better, but I made a very pointed decision not to open my mouth too wide.

When I tried really singing, even alone in my bedroom, I cried. Every time.

I couldn’t let my “soul” out without crumpling into myself. I still don’t know why. Maybe I had some horrible trauma that I repressed?

I talked to a therapist about it once and was told I shouldn’t dig into problems that weren’t actually negatively affecting my life. What do those words mean? How can I be content with mediocrity when every bone in my body aches to fulfill its terrifying potential?

In any case, the feeling I have about singing is the same as writing. Some writers say they hear voices tearing them down and judging them, but for me the terror comes from deep within, from that same well that fuels the tears.

I am a writer; I was meant to write. I feel the call.

But I can’t escape the fear.



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Hiatus and Challenge

A pause on the prose and poetry has been put in place, per JM’s attempt to pursue perpetual employment. I hope you can empathize. Prolific apologies to the people.

In the meantime, please deposit here any requests/suggestions/challenges for the topics of future poems. For example, you could have me write an amusing epic about a drunk chicken, or a poignant poem about losing a loved one. Request away and I shall do what I can!


Half Asleep

Eyes crack open, fighting dreary midnight geldings
and the impossibly thin line between Was and Will Be.

Cold floor anxiety apprehends toes curled beneath
yesterday’s thermal covers.

The Now is so distinct, so painful the transition.
We demand the dark, forgotten pits of sleep,
yet morning looms large and pitiless:

the inevitable awakening.

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There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.


by Lord George Gordon Byron


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