In two days my first book of poems will finally be published.
Although extremely happy, proud, and relieved; I'm also very sad.
Sad that my hearts' secrets are no longer secrets- sad that my book, my relationship and my love is finally resolved,ended, and in my past. It's also exhausting because it may be taken in the negative light and avoid all of the love. Or perhaps I will be judged harshly by my peers for being vulnerable and honest about my heart. I'm publishing it with positive energy and hope for well received thoughts.
However, no matter the reception, I will keep writing- it's in my veins and in my heart.
I can't keep apologizing for who I am- as I am no longer ashamed of being myself.

Trying to get published is a ******* joke.
My hands are tired of holding my face together,
eyes open at the bottom.
Hydrated by tiny sighs of disappointment
passing through my fingers.
I'm tired.
They seek the ******* about flowers
and the quietness of a lake,
and all I have to offer is
the hopelessness that ensues
most of these messes,
and the reality that this **** exists.
They want the "solitude of a haiku" in every piece.
Well, I have some groundbreaking news *******,
if humans were so content with everything
we wouldn't have or need any **** writers.
This is poetry too,
and if you think otherwise
your definition must be
shallow, jaded, and/or
[most importantly]
incredibly boring.