I know I've been a ***** lately
And you're definitely not used to that
And even if I'm angry at you
I know you don't deserve it

You told me not to push you away
Because I'd rather get wasted than tell you how I feel
Because this **** is killing me
But if I tell you that
Nothing will change

So why would I tell you that this is the most pain I've ever felt?
Why would I tell you how much I hate this whole thing?
Why would I say that I'm fighting all my instincts to run?
Because you know I won't
Because I love you
And leaving would hurt just as bad as this

And why would I tell you I don't want you to have a third partner?
Although you kind of already do
And even staining those words on this screen
Makes me want to ******* die

We're supposed to work through ****
But what if I can't?
I know we've all felt this way
But we are not the same
You and they cried about it
So did I
A few times
But now I'm just angry and resentful
And I feel nothing aside from that
Except the urge to hurt myself

Why would I tell you that hanging out doesn't help me?
It really doesn't change anything
Because even when we're together
I accidentally see her name across your phone screen
You mention her in a story
And my insides implode and I
Immediately
Wanted
to leave

But we were in a group
And I didn't want to answer any questions
Because these thoughts feel juvenile
And my aggression that's normally hidden
Tucked deep inside where no one else can see it
Is starting to break free
And I don't know what that means

When I'm at work I want to die
But when I go home I feel the exact same
And if you had came over today
I knew it was out of pity
And I don't need that ****
You cannot fix me
Nothing helps this

I feel ******* useless
I feel replaceable
I feel angry and aggressive (because I am)
And I feel invisible
I feel like I don't matter at all
And what I feel means absolutely nothing
Because you'll do whatever you want
And even though I say that's fine
I'm ******* suffocating
And I really don't know if I can hold my breathe much longer
Before I lose myself
And leave

I often see poems that go by "untitled".
Some may even refer their poems as "Untitled" with capitalized importance.
"Untitled" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unimportant".
The work is still in process.
It has importance.

I often write poems that go by titles.
Some may even say that my poems are "Unoriginal" with cliche names.
"Unoriginal" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unintentional".
The work went through the process.
It has intention.

I often read poems because of their titles.
Some may even claim that their poems are "Profound" with unlimited potential.
"Profound" is not to be, now should it be, mistaken for "invaluable".
The work is still processing.
Its value has yet to be seen.

This marks the birthing of monumental proportions
turning a black and white world to one of perpetual
variegated sunrises. You are the furthest thing from
an accident.  You continue to cultivate one step at a
time breathing new life into each set of hungry eyes
waiting to confront the trojan line that produces the
battles in the brain.  What to write next is under the
surface,  patient and dormant,  for the future paints  
you in the adrenaline of other colors.   Instinctually,
I look to you and surrender to the abrupt,  arresting
grip of the ghost of a thought that’s just out of reach.

Her eyes opened from the deep sleep,
She panicked...
Her body was wrapped in what felt like clear plastic wrap.
Trying to breathe, but she was Suffocating
How long have I been walking around like this?
She wasn't powerless though.
Wrestling, she managed to tear the cocoon that entangled her.
Gasping... she emerged out and took a deep breath in.
Alive, shes alive.
Stepping out of the cocoon, she smiled.
Knowing she was free.
She knew now she could fly.
She is me and I am her.
Soar my dear, you're alive.
Alive.

Silence, I'd want all of it.
Running so fast after that button was missed
Too anxious to really make it a hit
Among everyone, there'd be admiration
A sun, or two.
But the work wasn't up to par for you
At least that's what I heard
I don't write for anyone, as blunt as that may seem
I still find myself looking for approval
For the work already created
I'm not looking for validation
To create and be creative
But often too afraid to strike out
In dissassaproval
Of work, I'm most vulnerable of.
I don't ever want to create a piece that has no resolution
To just leave an open wound or thought
Left to be just that
I feel obligated to share a brightening shade to my darkest moments
In order for someone to truly benefit from my shared work
That is why the pieces in my drafts, stay in draft.
But what I can tell you is,

I'm still not always ok.


I feel like my life is kept in the drafts folder.
Yeah, I'm always progressing in life, in the journey
Even in what seem like standstill moments
Of solitude and suffering.
But that's the thing,
I'm progressing
So isn't all work, published or not in life, still a "draft"?

None of our journies are over yet.
Let's share our drafts
And create our finished work, together

if i go outside more
and try to cry less
i'd maybe believe
i won't just regress.

but that doesn't mean
i'll find any success -
Recovery doesn't just happen,
It's an ongoing process.

Currently waiting inside the car
while my tummy's state at war
I lean with abstractions in my mind
Purely and briefly outlined

As I take my pen
Jotting the essence of writing
That ought to be spoken
Me with my head chock-full of sighting

Take one step at a time
Collect your thoughts
Thinking about its prime
Like untying the holding knots

May grapple at first
But the creative process
Can make it all together unforced
As though you're learning to put them all on paper professed

Writing takes you to another place
In a way that prose can never do
The struggle of putting it all together
Very well to put together here