Dear ______,
I hate writing.
Describing how I feel is hard to do in words people can connect to. I want to cry over how overwhelming it is. I started this series of poems when I was 19. 3 years ago, I was at my rock bottom. Someone important to me had passed and I was going through a journey of the self. Who am I? What do I love? Why do I hate myself? No, really. Was it because of what I assumed were people's perceptions of me? Was it because I assumed I was worthless, not a contribution to society, my family and people important to me? Was I a burden? A waste of space?
It's hard to say. I can vividly remember how I felt back then but the moments leading up to it are blank gaps in my brain. Sometimes I wonder if I liked the misery. Feeling sorry for myself instead of being happy. But I know that's not the case. I tried so hard after he passed. I tried to suppress that void with anything. But instead I lost myself. It was debilitating and I'm still paying the consequences.
But I must journey on. It doesn't stop for me. I can either go or stay. I can either stay in bed or go on the hike. Do I waste my time or enjoy the ride?
YOU ARE READING
19
PoetryDiving into adulthood, dealing with loss and love, and trying to figure out who I am. Will I have it all figured out? The answers probably no.
