I want to scream, I want to shout, I want to run away.
I want to write but
it’s been so long since I’ve written anything that the words aren’t coming out,
the sentences aren’t forming. There is no rhyme, no rhythm, no … heart.
There is no there there. My fingers flow freely across the
fucking keys but there is no new song there is no release. I’m writing like a
robot reboot stuck in one spot too mute. Every word is agony tragedy that my
voice is broken it’s a written catastrophe. I’m screaming on the page but no
sound is coming out, just the hollow thump thump thumping of my thumb on the
space bar, moving the cursor forward like so many broken promises, strung out,
no scar. It’s a jumble, it’s a mess, but at the moment it’s my best. Like
learning to breathe underwater my lungs are bursting in my chest, no vest, no
rest, as I try to conquest my fears built up over the years into an unquenchable
smoking fire that burns me from the inside out. So I’m throwing down the
cigarette of self doubt and taking a nicorette, a move I only hope that I can
live to regret. It’s time to break free from the me that I’ve come to be, the
weaknesses and bleaknesses that I’ve come to believe. I need to breathe.
One
Two
Three.
