The words,
I mean they feel like needles on my fingers,
And a dull smack to my chest,
It's the pain that makes me bite my lip.
I could express,
In theory,
Exactly how I feel,
In a thousand words or more.
I could tell you just how I hate having,
Absolutely.
No one.
To talk to at night.
I could give reason,
Why I dread the merry season,
Why a time of togetherness,
Feels me with utter dread.
I could show you how,
I hate my birthday,
A time to celebrate me,
A time forgotten.
I could explain and explain,
The tears running down my cheeks,
The tightness in my chest,
and the heaviness of my breath.
I could,
Express,
Explain,
Show,
Give you the
Do you look in the mirror often? Do you just sit there and stare into your own eyes and inspect every little detail of your face? I do that often, almost every day. I sit in front of the mirror and stare. I catalogue every minute detail and belittle every single blemish. Some may call me narcissistic, but I don’t love myself. I study to find changes, to pick at things that shouldn’t be there, and to occasionally belittle myself as I tend to do. I do this to appease my anxiety. To keep the nagging voice that there is something there just below my skin, living, feeding, and breeding inside me appeased. It is one of my worse anxietie
The words,
I mean they feel like needles on my fingers,
And a dull smack to my chest,
It's the pain that makes me bite my lip.
I could express,
In theory,
Exactly how I feel,
In a thousand words or more.
I could tell you just how I hate having,
Absolutely.
No one.
To talk to at night.
I could give reason,
Why I dread the merry season,
Why a time of togetherness,
Feels me with utter dread.
I could show you how,
I hate my birthday,
A time to celebrate me,
A time forgotten.
I could explain and explain,
The tears running down my cheeks,
The tightness in my chest,
and the heaviness of my breath.
I could,
Express,
Explain,
Show,
Give you the
Do you look in the mirror often? Do you just sit there and stare into your own eyes and inspect every little detail of your face? I do that often, almost every day. I sit in front of the mirror and stare. I catalogue every minute detail and belittle every single blemish. Some may call me narcissistic, but I don’t love myself. I study to find changes, to pick at things that shouldn’t be there, and to occasionally belittle myself as I tend to do. I do this to appease my anxiety. To keep the nagging voice that there is something there just below my skin, living, feeding, and breeding inside me appeased. It is one of my worse anxietie
I am in a good creative mood but I don't have any ideas on what to write. So I if there is any type of story you would like me to write or you would like to hear just ask me and I will. I am looking forward to your suggestions
I don't know if it is true or not but I am feeling bad.....As I look at all my stuff, including the things I am most proud of I feel that I cannot call my self an artist in any sense of the word. I lack in any subject of art I try to take on, no matter how hard I practice. It all seems to come out looking like shit. On the other hand the one thing that I have been good at, my poems, are now starting to take a down turn. I can't think of anything to write and when I do begin to write it sounds like a three year old wrote it. It seems like I don't have a talent. This bothers me so much. Can I be good at one thing I try out? I am increasingly ti