My hands ache
with the desire to write
but my soul
is unable to find the words.

I have decided that my greatest achievement will be turning my life, my deepest passions and interests into my career. Turning my skills and already-valuable assets into my professions. Not just one, but many. I want to educate myself in more than one aspect of life. I want to delve into the rich, lush world we live in and devour it, share as much of it as I can with as many people as I can before I leave this Earth. I am so angered and infatuated, infuriated…in love with humanity. In love with this silly ball of light we live on. 


I would never miss the opportunity to smell a freshly open bag of coffee.


If I could, I would literally rip my skin apart if it would allow me to escape from this frail, pathetic excuse for a body that I have the misfortune to call my own. 


"Your soul is so tightly wound," she said to me, "that when it is finally ready to unravel, it will disintegrate into sand."


When did I become invisible?

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. —Kahlil Gibran


I am clawing at my skin, trying to escape this useless body. I am fighting this life with every ounce of my being, but I can’t break free. I wake up and walk through this haze, day after day after day. I need to get away. I need to breathe. I need to find myself again.


Is it the writer in my veins
who tells me to never stop
experiencing life? To make mistakes,
not on purpose, but to humble
myself, to learn about myself,
to figure out exactly who I am,
Who I want to be?
Is it the poet behind my eyes
who tells me to live life in
colors, not just black and white?
To never stay in one place too long,
to leave without notice, to simply
disappear and recreate myself
somewhere new, as someone new?
To write my own story, to be limited not
by the ink in my pen, or the blood in
my body, or the air in my lungs—
Is it the writer in me?


I am cheated. I am a flower longing for
the touch of the sun, to break into
blossom, to explode in vibrant bloom.
But the great oak smothers me in soft
shade, my petals frigid, my body wilted,
trapped in a shadow, watching as the sun
poors her lovely light over the Roses
and Tulps. I am chained. Held deep by
roots in dark, dense soil. I stretch and sway,
unable to break the bindings holding me solid
to the earth. I will ache for the warming caress
until my petals are naught but ash and my roots
are nothing more than grains of sand.