People ask me why I write.
Why I take some and such things,
And elaborate on them to lengths that literally no one even asked for.
My response was,
Have they ever had a feeling, that they couldn’t put into words.
You see, I may not be able to speak for everyone,
But I know I speak for someone,
If not anyone else,
Then with confidence, I speak for myself and proudly so,
When I say,
That my emotions are not mental creations that can be so easily put into single words,
I am never happy.
I am also never sad, glad, mad, none of that.
I am a writer. And I use my words well, to describe what’s on my mind.
You see, it is not depression.
It is a spinning whirlwind of hellish thoughts,
Of anxieties, my nightmares walking around me,
Whispering in my ear like a lover,
Like my love that I pushed away so stupidly as it loves to remind me,
Yet also tear me down and remind me that I was undeserving,
Of my worthlessness,
Of my mistakes,
The ones I’m doomed to repeat whether I even made them or not,
Speckling every word with previous failures and memories.
Caught in a web of every tear shed linked to the next,
My depressive thoughts,
A spider that I watch calmly,
Being seasoned with every word of previous failures and memories,
Stuck in a cycle of deja vu and repeated ‘I’m sorry’,
As I’m spun into a cocoon, ready to be devoured.
And I dared them, oh you can be sure that I dared them,
To even think of telling me I’m making mountains out of molehills,
Because honey, I did not build the mountains in front of me,
If I could choose, I would put obstacles, most definitely,
For life without some struggle is way too easy
And gives me no opportunity to think and grow,
But I definitely wouldn’t make them all mountains,
So please, don’t even think to start calling them my creation.
When I create something, I am goddamn proud of it,
But you can be goddamn sure,
I’m climbing every single one and planting my flag on top.
And this is not anger,
No, now no fury of mine can be restrained under a single word,
No, it is a powerful storm.
At times, it can be sporadic as lightning,
Ready to strike down any and all who oppose me,
Who think striking a match in a room of methane and gasoline
Will turn out well for them,
But let me assure you, stank air is not what I’m full of,
I am a nature-defying being of magic,
For I am cold fire,
A beautiful oxymoron ready to roast you like there’s no tomorrow,
Like I won’t be here still tomorrow,
Over the fiery gasoline running through my veins,
Breathing out methane in your face,
And I freeze you.
With an icy glare that beats every avalanche,
That one could hope to summon on any mountain I have conquered,
With temperatures so freezing, even my heart skips a rare beat with it’s shiver.
And let me make it clear, there is no happiness.
There is something much more than that,
For after the catastrophes that are my mood-swings,
The deathly calm of my drowning,
Under giant tsunamis caused,
By my nether-born hell rage,
I also hold the light.
The long-since prayed for sun,
The reason so many in history believed their savior to be the fiery skylight on the blue,
And wished for the sun god to bless them all,
With my smile being the ray of light, bathing every war-torn face,
With eyes both glassy and watching,
With no judgement,
As I know how hard it can be for someone so praised to be so horrible.
And my laugh…
My laugh is unlike earthquakes,
Unlike the hurricanes and tornadoes,
For it can shake a world, but cause no destruction,
For I shall always be a beautiful oxymoron,
With only a little emphasis on the second part,
No matter how much nature may strike upon me,
No matter how much fate may try to tear me down,
Ignoring the sounds of cracking hearts,
I ignore the sounds of my thread being woven,
Because I’m used to ignoring spiders that cocoon me day after day,
I ignore the sound of it’s length being measured,
Because I’m used to having to measure up for others,
I ignore the sound of the scissors ready to snip,
Because no more do I aid them with a rope of my own,
I am a writer.
And I will be proud of it,
And honey, you can bet every single dollar you make,
That I will always be a goddamn writer,
Long after my fingers stop typing, my pencil stops scratching and my mouth stops moving,
My words will haunt.
I will always add my flare and dramatics to every single piece of paper I touch a pen to,
You were always so sweet,
yet so salty as you rubbed yourself in my wounds,
I will never get fully over you, but I can assure you,
You will never compete with the oxymoron of me,
My mind, my emotions,
My writer’s emotions of flare and fire,
As a writer that can be the greatest of windstorms and the weakest breeze at once,
I’m proud to still be strong enough to ruffle your feathers.
Because I won’t settle anymore in single words,
And I can never,
be just ever,