My grandma often tells me that all I seem to write is sad poems. Why don't you write something upbeat and happy for once?
She doesn't get it.
If you look close enough at me there's this dark blue liquid filling my body on the inside streaming in through my cursed brain. There's a spell that has yet to be broken and a youthful girl to be unlocked from the cage.
I guess what I'm trying to say is
It's hard to write positive stuff when I've been sick for so long just marinating for 4 years in pools of depression. It's hard enough just writing to begin with when your mind is just the remnants of the Chernobyl incident, blown up and out and never to be seen again. I feel so intensely and there's no way to explain it. Putting words to my 4 year long tip toe to the edge of my sanity is just impossible, futile, never ever effective enough to get the image across that each day is my last. There was a part of me that wanted to live. Maybe there still is. But I don't know what's left, what's possible. Who can I be. If I can survive.
Over these 4 years I've cried, laughed, smiled, screamed, danced, isolated, sang. But I've always known that writing is something I love to do. It's one of my only releases where there's no limitations and no expectations. Just me and the art of the word.
Setting myself free with every graze over my keyboard, spilling myself out on to you, my reader.
I know very few people actually read my stuff because let's be honest here who would actually want to read this.
But at least I'm here.
YOU ARE READING
17th Mountain
PoetryMy 17th birthday is on the 18th of january. I just wanna know how I'm still alive. Wtf here is a poetry montage of my emotional,spiritual and overall growth since I was a yung thang.
