Life as a Poet Knows It
Life as a Poet Knows It


I am...


Hello! I'm awkward. I say too much, feel too much, drink too much to make up for my shitty social skills. I'm socially inept. Sometimes I become paralyzed at the thought of conversation. So much so, my tongue trips over words I clumsily try to place like bad feng shui in an overly crowded, darkened house. Maybe all I am is sweaty palms and impromptu leaving too soons.

I am told my anxiety isn't noticeable. Except, I feel only when I stutter or turn pale or run out of the room because my body is convinced it's not getting enough air. When I'm struggling to breathe..

You see, it's hard to be me.

When my heart starts beating. No, kicking! at an unwanted, uncomfortable, alarmingly fast pace that I can only assume means I am going to die. Very, very soon.

I am panic attacks. I am scars. I am bloody sleeves. Lacerations and sutures. I am depression. I am body aches. I am anxiety. My body rejecting food. Because my stomach is too twisted and broken to house anything other than fear. I am therapist visits. Medication refills. I am silent screaming dreams and benzodiazepines.

I was born pre-programmed for disaster. You see we never really stood a chance.

It's not you, It's me. It's not you, it's me.

It's not's me.

And when you leave, I know why.

My hobbies include talking to ghosts.

It's hard to bury them in my cemetery of over run memories. We hold one-sided conversations. I can see and hear them so clearly, these beings, these disappearing acts who no longer play a role in my life but I give them the stage any way. I'm an expert at peeling scabs and ripping out sutures by reliving past wounds.

I am emotion. Unabridled and breaking free.

Step back away from me

performance poetrysad poetry
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