Sincerely October

Iris season

A happy chapter.

More than anything
How do I learn to live with it?
I know the truth, I know the more I cover my ears the louder it becomes, I know the truth begs for a witness, so I admit it, this is the way things are, this is how they've always been, but from here where do I go?
It seems I am lost in a sea of confusion and fog. What do I do now?
I am trying to mend myself, I am trying to pick up the broken pieces, but in my mind this is unacceptable.
I know the truth but what am I to do with it?
How do people do it with such ease? How do I make sense of this?
You seem to like being this way, you seem to find the beauty in it, and I am only beginning to make eye contact with reality.
How could I ever be like them? What can I do to be like them?
I am still trying to bend the truth into something easier to live with, it all feels like too much to admit so maybe if I make it less then it is, maybe if I pretend to be fine about it I will be.
I have been living in the same stories for years now, the changes progress so slowly it crushes me. Write it all out, admit to myself that this isn't going to fucking change, no amount of hope will change this, then deciding to erase anything that holds any evidence, maybe I can forget about it, I try to forget about it and I am never able to, it grows louder and demands a witness, I admit it to myself again and the cycle repeats day in and day out. It's routine at this point.
I would love to make peace with it, and I will, one day I will, I am just not sure how.

Notebooks filled with poetry
I pour myself onto the page, if my writing does anything it takes a photograph of what it is like to be right here right now.
I write about the color of the sky today, I write about what is on my mind, I don't need a scrapbook because I have all my memories in my poems.
Tell me about the day you told your biggest secret. Tell me about every step you took to find sobriety. Tell me what it was like to be you today last year.
Writing has not only captured my life but it has left me with the sense that I am doing something right.
No matter where I go, writing will always be there, writing will always hold me, writing will always help me see.
It is one thing I have stayed with, I wrote during my happiest days and darkest hours, I was held as I made my way back home from hell, I enjoyed a picnic in a meadow far more because I wrote about it.
It seems no matter where I find myself I will write about it.

A new era
I am starting to believe that I can make sense of this, it's not as bad as it once seemed, it's not bad at all, actually.
I spent many months gasping for air, barely above water, I wasn't really living, and I started to think that maybe this is all there is for me, what a grim fate I thought I was destined for.
The truth is that I am no longer drowning, I sit in a dawn lit meadow, I feel that I have found what I've always been looking for.
FInally breathing, finally writing happy poems, finally living.