Outside Inside Upside Down

show you what it feels like

Every time I start to sit down and unload, unleash, unearth this many things in one moment, I disrupt and defy myself. Denying my fingers the release they seek to simply pour the words and letters onto this stupid goddamned mother fucking page.

Why can’t I just let me be me? I’m tired of this shit.

I have striven to own the things that came from me, whether you like them or not, I housed them and nurtured them with whatever fertilizer there was in my garden.

I used to write, and keep talking about how much I want to, and all I can do right now is this hideous ugly stream of consciousness. Just let it spill through my body like rivulets of joy and pain.

He took that from me, along with so many things. My hunger to write, my capricious and unrelenting torrent of verbiage.

So here I feel naked and discarded trying to pound out a sonnet or two of something that means more to me than a few seconds on the backspace key.

He hurt me in ways no one should be hurt, and I loved him. And I dwell on this like no one should. I am visited and revisited by shreds of memory lifted to me in ragged sweaty tear stained palms.

I can’t seem to let go of the things I should have. I wear this sadness like a brightly painted tacky car. I am certain that I should be well beyond this. I long to write about other things than this, but this is it. I can’t apologize for my pain because it is true.

There are other things that delight and amuse me and I want to focus only on them. Not on these stupid shitty moments, and hesitations and regrets.

How do I do this? How?

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