Anxious Poppies

Intro

Once upon a long, dark, time ago, I used to be able to find my words easily. They used to flow and sing and dance out of my mouth or my fingertips, my pen or pencil. I expressed myself well with words and I could convey a message of love, or hatred, lust, sadness, or even anxiety in a beautiful and understandable fashion.

But that beauty inside me is gone. I can no longer write words that rival siren songs, even these words are looked at with scrutiny and anxiety, does this sound right, do these words complete each other, compliment each other. Do they sound broken or beautiful, are they full or empty?

Mental illness takes its tolls on a person. It takes a once poet, a sculptor, artist, lover, writer, and turns her into a shell, words are empty, love is replaced with pointless sex, interest in beauty and life turned to heavy drug use on a minimum wage paycheck. Turns her away from clay, turns her towards Poor Man's LSD by the bottle, laced Marijuana and regular Marijuana smoked in the closet, bottles of alcohol, and empty boxes of cigarettes piling in the corner of the room where she missed the trash can every time because she was just too high to care.

My words used to be beautiful but they've been spoiled by my mind.