My Writing

I rarely write anymore. Writing comes from passion, from emotion, and a deep internal struggle which is released in collage of words. Mine were pretty much incoherent, I'm kinda like Picasso with words, but none the less I liked them, I liked the release. Well the point is, I rarely write anymore and that makes me sad. I guess, well, while I still have the deep internal struggle and have been witnessing so much pain around me. That pain, the empathy I now feel, is harder for me to navigate and express than my own personal struggles. The pain I have experienced through others, my inability to fight that pain, inability to help relieve it...it has sapped me of my ability to find release, leaving me somewhat defenseless and unprepared for the time when I know life will come for me, not just the ones I love.

Incoherent. What a great word.


my motionless cycle


Sitting, waiting for this feeling to fade
I gaze plainly into open spaces
Swallowing deeply, forcing down,
The anxiety which tried to overwhelm me.
I wonder what lies in store
Wondering what it is God has intended.

It is an endless circle I have found myself in
Praying for a girl to come in to my life
But knowing I am not prepared to care for her,
Needing motivation to get my life in order
I look for the girl who I am to be perfect for

I wait in an endless cycle for something or someone to intervene
To drive me, to break me,
From this web which slays my life
And prevents me from succeeding
At anything which makes life worth living