I’m struggling to write lately.


Not that I’m missing deadlines,

I’m producing content just fine.

But the content has lost its value.

It’s missing something unique from me.


I’m waking up later each day,

shutting out the creative part of my brain.

All that’s left is the memory of who I used to be,

when passion and a good story meant much more.


[4 more lines go here].


I’m struggling to be myself.

Anonymous:

Bro, I think you may be depressed or something.

You may wanna get that looked at.

 

Word

Sometimes when I come home,

after a long time spent away,

I don’t think of my home as mine.

It’s like my chair, with the hidden recliner, is somebody else’s favorite chair.

It’s as if the television I bought so I could watch the news were someone else’s.

I even think of my whiskey glass, with its perfect ridges, as a borrowed treasure.


And every year, I spend more and more time away,

sitting in other people’s chairs,

watching other people’s televisions,

drinking other people’s whiskey.

It almost feels normal to feel uncomfortable,

intruding into other people’s spaces.


But I’m home.

My home.

What is it about late nights

that draw out the best intentions

at a time when one can only be met

with the worst of outcomes.


Late at night I sit and read the words I’ve saved away

Dozens of poems logged for some other day.

Then I read through the intimate thoughts I shared for all to see

and the sobering truth washes over me.


I’m no longer willing to share these words.

Especially when they mean anything to me —

when they express my flaws and my regrets.

I can’t escape the fact that I’m not a poet.

I just really wanted to be.

Taking up residence, this new city fills my headspace.

Learning new rules, unspoken but understood

There’s a quiet feeling, but I can’t quite connect.

Fast paced and purposeful, living without intention