i.
I have too many big feelings and too many small words.
ii.
Sometimes they break out of my skin,
bleeding black ink on the paper.
iii.
Every time I write it hurts,
and I don’t know where these words come from.
They are not my words
iv.
These words hurt others
more than they hurt me,
but painful words beg to be spoken
more than they can be shut up.
v.
They tell me I am smart
but I do not know what I am doing right
because they tell me to learn from my mistakes
and I cannot tell if I am even trying –
and that’s too easy to count as living.
vi.
I want to tell people things, everything(s),
and even though it is hard, I try
because I do not try hard enough everywhere else,
so at least I can try to be honest.
Even though I do not even want my thoughts,
they are still mine, so I must keep them.
vii.
I feel too much. I feel too little.
And it all comes out at once
like a messy flood of tears and sighs.
I do not like how I am not me.
I do not like how I am not trying to be me.
I try to change but I like myself the way I am,
at least I think so, but I am never sure.
viii.
I dream too hard, too far,
always chasing, never followed.
One thing leads to another and
I am left behind again in the dust,
watching others live better than I.
But my head will not come out of the clouds
and I wonder how other dreamers
do not trip every time they think bigger.
