I’m ok

I have not been able to write

Since I’ve sorted out my life.

 

I’m gonna get married,

And finish university,

Probably, maybe?

 

But can I really be a writer

If I can channel

Only the negativity

Into beautiful

Long form pieces,

Where I call for help

Through macabre worlds,

And my obsession with death?

 

Sure,

My grandma talks about death

Every week,

And my mum hates my step-dad,

And he loves her,

But never shows it,

And my baby brothers

Are blissfully unaware.

 

The perfect nuclear family

In their perfect little house.

 

And I’m ok.

 

I don’t abuse drugs anymore.

Sure,

I drink most days.

I battle my inner demons,

And my existential dread,

My depression,

My anxiety,

And my ADD,

But I’m ok.

 

I think.

 

So,

Can I call myself a writer,

If I do not see the beauty

In the world,

And feel like I’m drowning

In the darkness,

Barely keeping my head

Above water,

Which is heavy with thoughts,

Guilty conscience,

And distractions?

 

But I’m ok.

 

https://reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9n4wsl/crybaby/e7kpp29

https://reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9n8fy0/the_shame_i_shouldnt_forget_but_will/e7kih0s