Anxiety is the leaky faucet in my head, water running down my neck. My body, only really bones left and the slow drip for a decade has eaten through, the brittle and bitter feeling clouds my chest, my breathe shallow. 771Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKVhQOl38hb

In my head the Mona Lisa must of been more beautiful the minute after she was painted but every minute after her color faded and faded and now her beauty is..different, more dull, less vibrant. I feel blasphemous using the Mona Lisa as a metaphor for the ugliness of my aging. To me she’s every bit as beautiful as she ever could be, I used her because she’s a very recognizable painting for most people and I’m not well versed in art but now I feel I have to explain. 

/

My chest tightens thinking no one will see me in my youthful body. No one will touch my skin while it’s still soft and clear.  While I’m lean, while I’m shaped. I cry at the thought, I already see a heart stopping decline from when I was 19 and I stopped eating, now I’m mostly bones but it’s still better than being old, every day though I get closer to that and every day is lonely. Soon my body will match my aged soul and I’ll be ugly. 

Journal entry 1: 9/6/19

I wasn’t very good at being a human being but I was ok at being a son and ok at being a friend.

I suppress my expression, when what I give life to doesn’t come close to breaking the atmosphere I’m left with less of myself and I’m still earth bound.

By design it’s rare for one to escape the slums alive 

If I were a house I think sadness would be the little spiders that always find their way inside, it’s fitting because I’m scared of spiders. Or maybe it would be the water that drips through the leaky roof that ruins the kitchen floor, making the tiles stick up and I always step on the jagged edges. I know anxiety would be the dog that yaps at the wind, and leaves, and knocks, and shadows. It always startles me, tensing me up. If I were this house I would of burned myself down by now. 

Water goes bad if it’s still for too long, that’s why I can’t relax. Fuck, I’m tired. 

Journal entry 2: idk date

I wanted to stop writing but it’s like a drug for me. It kills me not to partake, it kills me for partaking. Some of my highest highs have been from writing, a poem of mine for 2.7k likes. Some of my lowest lows have been from writing, I pour my soul out, completely naked to the world and to have no one notice? It’s upsetting to say the least. My voice, my view of the world might as well be silent, my struggles, my wants, needs, who cares. I’m not posting anymore on Instagram. I deactivated my twitter today. 

I feel like a junkie without the high, I’m barely alive, running on fumes. Sleep is the rabbit, I’m a turtle. I can’t get my thoughts straight when I shake, when my stomach aches. I’m a druggy who’s not addicted but stuck forever in the cycle of withdrawal afflictions. 

The world into a plot of land, an acre I think. The acre into a house, the house into a room. I thought things couldn’t get smaller but the room split in two then the room finally settled into a couch. My whole life compacted into a few feet of cushion and a ragged blanket and a few pillows. I’m small, I don’t need a lot of space but with so little how am I suppose to grow? I’m a plant with a tiny pot, a planet in the shadow of moon twice it’s size. 

I think about this a lot, if art matters if no one sees it. The act itself is beautiful, to let out whatever darkness is in you or to cherish peace and good times, whatever but if no one indulges it, understands it, bathes in it letting it fill every crevasse and wash all of the dirt off softening their skin, what’s the point? Think of it like cooking, if I cook french toast, perfect french toast, plate it nicely, drizzle the syrup just right, if no one eats it why bother? That’s a dumb analogy, you could just say “eat it yourself” and you’d be right my brain is just trapped in this invisibility complex and my heart is stricken with poverty and my body is sickeningly sick, that’s weird to say out loud. I just mean I want people to love what I create because for some reason reconciliation would make me a someone. I’m broken stuck writing shitty poetry.

Twitter is the loneliest place I’ve ever been. I talk to myself and just hope someone joins in. 11 followers, 1 from my other account, 2 friends, 8 bots.  I’m not entirely sure why I think going viral will make me happy but I’m chasing dragons still, why not? What else is there to do? 

Journal entry 3: date unknown again

I’m in love with a girl who has chameleon eyes but nothing else about her is uncertain, though, every bit as beautiful. 

(Minecraft)

I always build a house, they're always different besides always being secure like a fortress with a hidden room and spacious. I get bored of the scenery and I build a fishing shack, they’re always different but always made of birch, I like the light wood, it reminds me of pastel and they’re open, breezy. I get bored of the scenery and stop playing all together until I get bored of other games and come back and start the cycle all over. I think this says a lot about me and it from Minecraft of all games. I could of made this more pretty, more poetic but it’s 11 PM right now, I had two panic attacks yesterday and nearly had another one an hour ago and I’m spacey and I find it hard to care how good a poem no one is going to read is, if I’m honest. 

I couldn’t handle anything I want if I got it - Allergic to sand with a dream to go to the beach, if I woke up with it all at my feet I would feel too much pain to feel happy. 

My heart is made of soft, pastel pink flower petals. I like to think it offsets the death stick between my teeth but I don’t think it does. 

Bf material

I know you’re cold, chilly, nippy. It’s autumn outside. If only I were wool I’d weave myself into a sweater, or even cotton for a comfy hoodie. I wish I were any material you needed instead of only being needy. I think if anything I’m chainmail mesh that’s too soft to protect. 

Journal entry 4: again

I try to write as fast as the thoughts and ideas flood my head but all it results in is ugly hand writing and misspelled words and a sense of stupidity. I’m always overflowing but I’m never empty, only tired. 

Struggles are suppose to make you strong but I find dealing with good things harder, they’re like an empty compliment to make the criticism sting less or they’re a reminder that everything around me could change but I will always remain the same. The same sad soul who’s lonely and broke.

I actually like feeling weak, like when you get a cold or you’re talked down to or you self harm. Peoples eyes get softer when they look at you and it’s easier to be easy with yourself in that moment. 

I’m told I need to heal before blessing really mean anything but I feel like I need a blessing to heal. So I can’t heal without first already being healed, I can’t heal unless I was never sick to begin with. I’m a paradox I guess. 

Far too deep in the slums, that’s word to the tar trapped in my lungs. Anyway to speed up the journey to the end. Smoke is the warmth in my chest that I’m missing out on. 

Journal entry 5: ...

I pressed flowers in an Edgar Allen Poe book for chameleon eyes, my moon. He was rather dark from what I remember so I find it funny he helped me press flowers as an act of love to a girl. 

I can feel winter coming, it’s not hard to notice though. The air gets more still and the great being in the sky turns the dimmer switch down and the suns light becomes as soft as clouds. Most people find it depressing and I get why, it being all gloomy and numb and everything pretty starts dying but I find it all so peaceful. I love being cold and bundling up in my blanket, dreading getting up, the floor almost hurts my naked feet so I run but that makes warmth feel so good. I will admit though, the cold likes to whisper in my head and remind me my own body heat is all I have left, no other body to cling to for warmth and that makes me sad but I’d still forever prefer winter. 

Less poetic, more political but I think a lot about how the relief of suffering has a dollar amount. It really fucks with my head. If I saw another human in pain and I could fix it, my first thought wouldn’t be how much I can get out of them it would be how fast I can help. Where I’m from if the illness doesn’t kill you the hospital bill will and that’s never seemed right to me. The cherry on top though, dental and vision are “extra”. The ability to see is a luxury apparently and so is a smile. It honestly makes me not want to live in this world to think that. It feels like someone bleeds, who’s heart beats, who has a family and dreams and a whole life just like me, just punched a hole in my chest and grabbed my very soul and squeezed every drop of juice out of it. That’s what it feels like to realize good health is a luxury in so many peoples eyes. 

Journal entry 6: ...

Maybe my anxiety isn’t like a monster at all, more like a scared little kid or a baby even, where everything is just too intense because it’s all new, so new. Imagine just appearing in the world one day able to think and feel and breath air when a few minutes ago you couldn’t, scary as fuck. 771Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMHEaiPiW6F

I was born from two sides of a ying yang sign that came together one day. Minutes after my literal conception, the black side with the white dot vanished but I didn’t think much of it. I’ve leaned on the white side with the black dot for as long as time has existed to me, where the white side is curved I'm jagged. I feel like the middle piece of a broken mirror but at least I’m not alone, I thought. Lately the white side with the black dot has been searching, not unlike me but in my eyes a ying only has room for a yang, where would I fit into that equation? If I were even a few more pieces it wouldn’t be so hard but I’m losing my foundation before I even have all the walls up. Resent is something I thought I’d never feel but here it is, at my doorstep, knocking loud like the police and I’m sitting inside realizing I’m the only one here to answer the door now. Everyone always chooses someone else or something else over me, I’m not sure why I expected this to be different. 

Every poem I write is more worst than the last, I don’t really care anymore though. 

It creeps and seeps in like spiders through nooks and crannies. 

All of my idols who I held in the brightest light as turned out to have been raised in the shade.   

My dog is in his 60s now, I’ve had him since he was little enough to fit in one hand and even he puts me on the back burner, the backseat. Dogs have this natural special power of unconditional love, I think that’s really rare in this world and even this creature puts me second. I would first fight a cougar for him, I would punch a bear in the face for him but all it takes for him to forget about me is someone new around or a sandwich.

There’s something nostalgic and nice about being bundled up in my blanket, in my room, all toasty and having to get up and face the icy cold house with its bitter, still air and painfully frozen floors. Walking to the bathroom but stopping off in the kitchen, warming my hands on the stove burner that we keep on it help combat the chill since central heat and air is a thing I’m not sure is real anymore. Finally heading off to the bathroom and doing the same thing when I come back before finally making it back to my bed. I think I would miss that if things got easier. 

Anxiety is time vortex like a fast forward button. I’m trapped in this bubble aging, my body is deteriorating but everything outside says the same. It’s kind of amazing how much anxiety and stress and depression can completely change your body and mind. It fucks it up beyond recognition, it rewrites your brain, it reprograms everything. 

I don’t feel like a poet anymore, I say a lot but I’m not saying anything. I think I’m mostly just a talkative introspective basket case who can’t stop turning everything into cries for help.

The only thing consistent is my shortness of breath, the only thing I can count on is feeling depressed. Beyond that, hoping for anything different is mote point, constantly fluctuating between my freezing and boiling point. I feel like I’ve run marathons back to back since my conception, like one after the other after the other after the other. I’m done writing now.