Writing for me has purely been an outlet. I found myself enjoying the challenge of putting complex human emotions into words. I actually started writing when I was 11 or 12 when my parents were beginning to divorce. I found myself unable to express emotions in any other form that wasn't written. I experienced trauma the same way I experienced a restaurant getting my food order wrong. I would register the event with annoyance and just move on. I never knew how to process trauma in a healthy way. Because I held everything in, it would beat the walls of my brain trying to get out. I had to let it out some way, so I chose to write. Many years and traumas later I am here in my twenties still writing. I am definitely in a better place now, but I am still trying to process my past and writing has helped that process. Writing has always been a friend to me. I can write anything without fear of judgement or pity and it has been exhilerating in a way. I hope one day I can be a published writer, so that I can inspire people and relate with others through my experiences. I wouldn't be able to form the correct concotion of words to express how much writing means to me. It has saved my life and stayed by my side continuously. I don't even care if people read what I write. It just feels good to write, to create, to express, and to just lay everything out there.

Sorry for the messy state of this passage. I just wrote what I was thinking. (:

If I could tell you what was wrong with me, I would. If there was a combination of words that I could reply to “what’s wrong?” then I would.

There’s something about the question, “Are you okay?” that shatters me

Because, before my mind was blank, empty even, but now my mind is running free

And within three seconds, I’ve relived my past traumas and recalled everything wrong in my life

So I answer, “yes”...because there’s too many words, too much internal strife

I’ve found that people don’t want your stories, they have no words to grant you sustenance

I can’t help but feel bitterness from the amount of impertinence

Stop asking if I’m okay, I am not and you’re not and he’s not nor is she

Ask me something that will make me forget, forget everything, so I can understand the term carefree

I haven’t posted in a long time, but I haven’t stopped writing. I have too many drafts saved here to leave at this point. As much as I would love to post my drafts, the perfectionist in me believes they aren’t ready to be shown.

Is it just me in this room

Alone again to consume

the emptiness of this space

Heavy blankets embrace

this empty corpse

dust collects under my only vase

dead flowers cry as

darkness seeps into the flower’s face

Everyone with their masks and gloves have fled

they left the virus to keep me company

but it’s too scared of me, because of the disease that’s already in my head

so i’m alone again because not even a virus wants me

Is it just me in this room

i can’t be alone anymore

why wasn’t i ripped out of the womb

loneliness has diseased my mind leaving me unhinged and hopeless. Can someone want me, anyone, please? My heart is dying and my eyes are dried out, all i have left to give you is this corpse of mine. Is it just me in this room or can you feel the sobs racking my body.

I have written a lot, but haven't posted. I have spent a lot of time writing and I ended up writing some poems that I'm very proud of. They aren't finished yet, but I would just like to post to say I am still here and I am still writing. I'm sorry if I haven't interacted with your posts, but I come here and write with the little free time I have then log off, but please know that I am still here and I can't wait to take the time to read your writings while I've been gone. Thank you.

How can you be so verbose,

yet say nothing at the same time.

Your words overdose

passions I find most sublime.

Your words are like half-hugs,

unfulfilling and cold.

Your words attract bugs

the kind that love shit not mold.

These words are like you,

an innocent exterior, but rotten within.

These words are like you,

inferior, yet getting under my skin.

The flowers wither and dull as time makes love with sadness.

Pink hues run from glazed eye’s coldness.

The tick of each second bites skin.

Decaying brain pairs well with a hollow grin.

Skin warps into a mass of matter less.

Words undress and rape the mindless.

Words bleed on paper from creation.

Ink clings to each other in desperation.

Tears cause dispute and ink no longer clings, but runs.

To create is to destroy. Words created at the expense of the creator’s self destruction.

Reading this prompt, I felt an overwhelming sense to cry. From toddler to young adult, thousands of pages are filled with my written words. All the emotions of a young girl who has suckled off the world of drugs, has lost her other half, and was abandoned not by chance but by necessity backs these words. As grave and bold as it is to say, I would not be alive without writing. So I will always write, even if the world stopped writing.

Writing is to tell a story, to have expression. A human without expression is inhuman.

The way his hair hugged his face in that moment made me cry. It wasn't his beauty or the way he looked at me. It was the way it clung so desperately to him. I could see nothing but him as I stepped back and felt the wind pick up pushing me impatiently. His eyes pierced my soul with anger and desperation. Each muscle in my face contorted to form a sad and loving smile. His eyes widened and he stepped forward with his arms outreached. He was yelling at me, but I couldn't hear him over the wind. 'Someone was definitely jealous.' The wind began to push me harder as I resisted the urge to fall into his arms. It was time as I saw the sun sink into the ocean painting the sky red. I reached down and rested my hands on his face. His eyes crinkled filling with tears. 'I love you', I whispered, so the wind couldn't hear. I stepped back and let the darkness swallow me.

I awoke in the depths of hell once again. Around me demonic creatures scurry about with their own duties to partake in. The sky is red and daunting as before, but this time I notice clouds black as ink floating low. 'I guess he's in a really bad mood today, great.' That's probably why everyone is actually working and not lazying around. I look around to see how close I am to Sin City. Nothing around me is the same as before and I seem to have appeared in a different place than last time.'Well what the fuck... Where am I? I don't recognize-' BOOM, everyone scatters and the ground shakes below me. I know he was expecting me, but why is he always so dramatic. 'Oh no...I hope he didn't hear what I said to Kane.' I panic internally. I slowly take a step forward thinking, 'If I run, It will probably piss him off more sooooo I'm just gonna slowly walk-' "Oh, so I see you've returned." I can practically here the smirk on his face behind me.

It has swallowed me again. I try to escape. There’s nothing I can do, but sit quietly thinking meaningless thoughts. It is everything. It is destroying me. I can never escape it. It digs into my brain and eats and eats and eats. Maybe I should visit Victor Frankenstein to replace this rotting brain.

This was the last draft I wrote, before taking a break from writing. I am back now and hoping to improve my writing in the next year. If anyone has tips on how to go about that, please let me know. (: