I wrote this last night. It's pretty raw and messy, but I think it captured my thoughts quite well.

Delayed this homework for a week

It was a rough one

I know I say that every time

Tired of excuses

But what am I supposed to do

Should have needed a day

So why do these simple words confound me

Maybe it’s perfectionism

Because I couldn’t find the right adjective

To put in that sentence

So I didn’t write it

“Yet”

Maybe it’s exhaustion

Because I’m momentarily seized by

That paralyzing lie

That I’m no good at this

I won’t be

And it makes no sense to even try

Maybe it’s stubbornness

Because every time I stare at that page

I’m knitting sweaters in my head

Conceptualizing characters

And finding all the things

I want to do instead

Maybe it’s overwhelm

All that line space I know

I don’t need to fill up but still

I tell myself I do

The piling up doesn’t help

I know it’s overthinking

Because I’m doing it now

Trying to understand why

I don’t do the things I should

And spilling over with frustration

So if you asked me why

It’s so hard when it shouldn’t be

I’d tell you one or another

Maybe

Or “it’s a lot of little things”

But that’d be no excuse

It’s silly

And it’s still late work

u know i was just trying to explain

why everything is pointless even if no one thinks the same,

what do words scribbled or typed mean in the end

why bother with grades when assignments are dull

and numbers that mean nothing to you in a grade book

they don't matter when ur dead. 

if ur no good at it

and you don't enjoy it

really what's the point?

if neither the task nor the reward holds any worth

and i'm as unmotivated as an orca on land

why bother with anything at all? 

cause i won't 

My eyes

meet the light -- 

The rushing scent

of Petrichor

Crashes 

Into me, swelling

Into an ocean of churning

Clouds and humid

sea-green and blues

My lungs, in panic,

Suck the brewing sky-smudges

And I am innundated with

The memory of something.

Something beautiful. 

my toes curl, 

letting dark, rich soil catch beneath them. 

underneath the shade of this tree, 

the air is cool and damp. 

vines curl around my ankles,

pulling me to the ground,

tethering me to the earth.

I don't resist. 

Click Click 

Click.

Click click click click-

Make it stop.

Ding ding

ding.

Ding ding ding ding-

It won't shut up.

Whirr whirr

Whirr.

Whirr whirr whirr whirr-

No new notifications.

Another scratch or bruise'll appear,

Yet another shed tear.

The sounds never stop.

The world never stops.

But the clock inside me is forever

Stopped. Or perhaps running 10-million times

too fast at

The same time and I just want it to

stop or maybe need it to start?

I don't know anymore, but can feel

It spinning out of

control, and the world

Fades to

brown, it's too

hot, everything

is tilting

pounding I

can't breath-

help.

The only thing that grounds me  

To this Real World

That is not brown and fuzzy,

Nor ocean tides-sounding,

No pounding -- throbbing -- exists 

Nor smelling of iron and pain in the bridge of my nose, 

Where the air is not actually hard to breath

And people are probably normal beyond my bubble 

Are the jagged nails cutting cresent-moons into my palms. 

I finally breath, able to see and again -- settling into a calm.

And yet, the grating noises still sound. 

Darling,

M'luv,

Dear,

Babe.

They all sound sickening

Dripping from my lips

Onto my keyboard 

Through the screen.

You're the one who wanted this,

So why are you disgusted too? 

I want to think, you're just not into "girls."

That's not true though. 

The days you opted out of being with me

You were with her instead,

Sweet smiles painting on as you laughed together.

I thought so much -- tormented, agonised --

And yet, with blades of flippancy you scape me off

"so discourteously," 

Just an afterthought, a number two.

So why can't I bring myself to blame you?

Why can't I be bitter, anger, sad?

Instead I feel a pang of jealous and it cuts into me,

I'm salty in my mind alone for a split-second and regret it,

I spent so much time just trying to think of ways to make you happy;

To cheer you up when you're sick, or in pain, or bored or sad --

Anything.

And just like that, you're gone;

Gone, but still all around me, a constant bitter reminder. 

I've blocked your number, wish to disappear,

Wonder if I can change schools, countries, names

All to hide myself away.

Why did you pick her over me?

Was I not good enough?

We're you ever truly serious about 'us?'

But then the voices remind me why.

They fish up those old near-forgotten thoughts:

They rip into the fabric of my being.

They -- I -- tell me I don't deserve you.

Think of all those times I could've been better.

All the embarrassing things done around you. 

Maybe I was annoying. Too boring. Too mean. Too awkward.

Maybe I could've put more effort, more thought, into it all.

Maybe if I'd tried a little harder,

Been born as someone prettier or more talented

Or waited till I was more skilled...

Maybe I never should have played along with your game.

I should have hid myself, forever.

I don't deserve anything. 

It's too late. 

What does it mean to sacrifice for others?

I tried to do that for you -- you still left

In a heartbeat, no remorse.

I pretend it was the same for me,

The whole affair caked in dark questioning dust.

What did any of it mean?

Were we supposed to be joking,

And I just missed the unreal part?

Were you serious, but I just wasn't enough?

Maybe it's your fault, but I don't want to believe it. 

Does any of it matter anyway.

I sink and sink into this venous web of quicksand. 

Body still, but mind stirring -- that stirring is just enough

To send be spiralling down, down, down.

And into the dark questioning depths that plague my head.

There voices ring out, nothing real is to be seen. Nil is true here?

I thought I was doing the right thing -- being courteous,

Being thoughtful and careful and respectful and open to listening;

Laying down my needs for you.

But was it really just too little? Am I just bad at this?

Or is it you who's got the issue? 

I wrote a poem.

I was doing it for poetry month, so I didn't expect to actually be proud of it, but I really like how it turned out. Maybe I should make myself write poetry without any idea of what it's going to turn into more often. 

Anyways, here it is.

your name buzzes like a bumble bee. it tastes

foreign on my tongue, though i have said it

so many times before. i let it rest on my skin, but i hold still,

don’t upset it, so it does not sting me. it is a beautiful,

magical moment, but it carries an air of sickness. it feels 

heavy, leaden, sinking to the 

bottom of the sea, repeating it again and again

until it twists into nonsense, into seaweed,

drying out on my grandparents’ dock, the seagulls scream,

the boat rocks on the waves, 

splinters dig themselves into my thighs, and i have no idea

what is coming for me. now it is years later,

in our basement, refusing to say anything

but your name. i couldn’t feel it then, but i see it now -

the thick way i talk, the strange way my lips

form themselves around words. i have not yet tasted 

knowledge. i just repeat you like a prayer, like the waves

washing over the beach, sunsets, words i try to capture

in a net meant for butterflies. your name feels

wrong, old, too much, but too little at the same time. i do not 

dare say your name too loudly, lest it

startle away the magic of the moment, but it feels like

letting go, writing your name again, hearing it in

my voice, 

mine, not yours. i let it fly away from me

instead of keeping it trapped in my head like a

panicked butterfly, trying to get out, and i collapse, exhausted.

exhausted, but whole.

even after letting you go. 

trust me, 

he says, 

when she's on the ground, 

her face sticky with salt.

he puts out his hand, 

and she grabs it,

hesitantly,  

letting him pull her to her feet. 

it's a cold, windy day. 

the sky is the same color as the pavement beneath their shoes, and

her converse whisper as they scrape against the ground. 

her eyes are rimmed with red, 

but he makes them crinkle up and brighten.

she opens her eyes wider when she laughs,

showing off their golden brown color. 

they match the color of the freckles sprinking his face.  

this is the first time, 

he has stuck out his hand to her, 

but it won't be the last. 

sometimes, 

it's her pulling him off the ground. 

sometimes they both can't find the strength to stand up,

but threads of light seem to slowly seep into your world, 

when you aren't alone anymore. 

I emerge

From the dust

Indeed, this Real World has changed me --

Perhaps even for the better.

But from that place of growing,

Must burst the butterfly

From its chrysalis

And fly back --victorious -- into the Land of Fantasy;

For it belongs not here, in the Real World, ultimately.