Poetry
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Writing is therapy for me, it always has been. I don’t do well with traditional therapy, talking to a stranger about my problems just is not for me. Give me a computer and a quiet corner? Whamo! Problem solved. The whole world can know about my problems if they really want to. Anyways, I’m going
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Do you ever just feel ugly? I don’t mean looking in the mirror and being unsatisfied with the reflection. Realistically, everyone has experienced that at least once in their lifetimes and most likely, more than once. There is room for body positivity, but I also feel there’s room for seeing our shortcomings and letting it
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I wrote half a page worth of a post before deleting it and staring at a blank page for far too long. It always seems my mind is full to bursting and, at times, it requires far more effort to organize and file away what’s in there for coherences sake than what it’s worth. I
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i have always been built of bones, structured from the ground up sutured together with arteries and veins, red and blue, pulled together and weaved through feeding me life of some kind or another as they ought to do pull those bones tight together with muscles and tendons wrapped around with ligaments, building a home
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I find greeting cards dull and unimaginative. They try, they really do try. They do come close to the essence of human emotion. I think, perhaps the real problem is I feel everything too deeply, too sharply, in too much descriptive detail. Anytime I’ve ever bought a card for someone I have to buy one
I Would Rather Be In Bed 