The writer is blocked. The writer decides to write about being blocked. The writer's brain does not enjoy having it's hand forced and retaliates. Where do we go from here?
(Honest to gods, I'm fine. I'm just having a strange week. Can I blame the continuing proximity to xmas? I'm going to, regardless of how you answer, FYI.)
*aaaand I just realized that when I switched a line at the last minute, I screwed up and deleted one vital word. Where did it go? Truly it is a MYSTERYππ
I don't recommend reading this. I'm not being facetious. It's under two slides of trigger warnings for a reason. I don't really think this should exist, and the likelihood that I'm going to delete it is pretty damn good.
I spent a lot of the day yesterday thinking that I probably ought to just stop posting, stop writing, just stop, until at least after the holidays. This isolated existence and the chaos in my brain don't mesh well with how December makes me feel. ....I don't know how to end this comment, caption, thing, because I'm incredibly conflicted and writing this piece definitely did not help. Good idea, bad idea, no ideas, idk.
First of all, at this point, my entire page is probably a trigger warning. But. In case you hadn't noticed that... I write a lot about mental illness, mine, specifically. My current diagnosis is dysthymia (a lovely word, meaning I am not crazy when say that I don't ever remember not being depressed), with a heaping side of generalized anxiety, and a smattering of ptsd. To say that I am not enjoying myself, is a pretty severe understatement. So anyway, y'know, beware? Herein lie monsters? Run away while you can?
I wanna say "inspired by", but I think maybe "confronted into being" would be a tad more accurate. In any case, this was written because I both very much did and absolutely did not want to write for the prompt "comfortably numb" from @antipoetic.revolution & @marierosepoetry
I want to say Happy Autumn Equinox & Blessed Mabon, but that's not where my head is right now. So, I guess you get this instead. Sorry..
just got the news/that my uncle died last night/and i don't know how to feel/i want to feel shocked/because the/circumstances/are/weird/i want to feel sad/but the relationship was/largely/nonexistent/i want to worry about my aunt/my only aunt left/on my mother's side/but we don't see/eye to eye to eye to eye/and i don't know/if i care/because i'm supposed to/because i remember her from/before/religion and trumpism/ate her brain like a starving zombie/i don't know/if i care/because the blood in my veins/and the roots of my tree/and the echoes of my maternal line/says that to be a good granddaughter/a good daughter/a good niece/a good woman/a good person/that i SHOULD care/but i have lived my life with the knowledge/that 'should'/is/a curse word/and i don't know i don't know i don't know/how i'm supposed to FEEL/because the depression makes me numb/and the anxiety says/that it/doesn't/and/DOES/matter/and i don't know which voice/to/LISTEN/to
–and i don't think this is a poem, but i don't know wtf it *is*
The poet is aware that "awkwardest" is not a word. She mostly does not care. She is also aware that only being able to refer to herself as a poet while speaking in the semi-loathed third person is something of An Issue. (I'm working on it. .....okay I'm actually not, but it's on the Self-Improvement list, I swear).
