There is nothing left to write
Every word has been spoken
Every sentence has been molded
Every story has been told
So how am i supposed to write?
The poems about dancing have been laced together and overdone
The poems about love are cliche and unrelatable for me
The poems about goals and aspirations have given me false hopes
The poems about overcoming anxiety haven’t gotten me out of this room
So how am I supposed to write?
The music I have listened to gave me some inspiration
But it only feels like a sad copy; nothing of my own
The pictures I look at spill ideas to me
But it only lasts a minute, then the picture is gone
So how am i supposed to write?
I look to my everyday life for inspiration
But I spend most of every day in bed, waiting for the pain to surpass
Or maybe I am just lazy and I use my anxiety and depression to hide behind
At this point
I couldn’t tell you which one is happening
So how am I supposed to write?
Writing use to come to me so naturally
Words would just flow into beautiful statements
And those who read them would cry
Now my words are so empty
So why am I still writing?
"Traveling makes me miss home - a home that is no longer mine to even claim.
There’s no view I like better than my yellow room at the end of the corridor, directly opposite from my sister’s pink room. There’s no sound I like better than the little melody that travels through the house every time a visitor arrives. And no pictures have ever been quite as memorable as the ones hanging on the walls of my sister, my cousins and I when we were all so much younger(I looked the worst by the way.)
I’ve been to a lot of places (not all but a lot) and still nothing quite beats the little house with the white fence and a garden filled with roses. The house tightly packed between others, surrounded by the smiling faces of neighbors who know far too much about your business and the sounds of children playing until the sun dips behind the tin roofs.
When I wish to return it’s to people who are no longer with me to a home that no longer belongs to me."
"A strong person is not the one who doesn’t cry. A strong person is one who is quiet and sheds tears for a moment, and then picks up the sword and fights again."
