you are not in wonderland ➵ poems

a formal vent regarding writer's block

I can't tell you how many times I've stared at a blank document wishing I could wax poetic and it be something reminiscent of a masterpiece. I call myself a writer, tell people I write all the time, that writing is my life, that to write is to be free - yet this is the first thing I've made myself really write in four months. And I did used to feel that way, so maybe I'm not a liar; I'm just tired. It's like this bone-deep ache that has me pinned down and I can't fight back.

I am a God in my own right. I hold the fate of my life in the palm of my hands, though it feels an awful lot like sand slipping through my fingers. Perhaps there are things Gods can't control - some things are simply meant to be. I am meant to be. My weakness is meant to be, for no God is perfect: power-drunk, anger-filled, self-entitled.

But isn't it odd that my weakness is my strength? I've always loved the hammering heartbeat of a challenge, the adrenaline that surges through your veins; the rush is sinfully addicting and doesn't quite belong in this sluggish, slow world I've built myself recently. Writer's block is awfully vexing, but writer's severe-lack-of-motivation-which-leads-to-a-mental-breakdown is a little bit more complicated in that sense. An outsider's perspective might just see a few tears and a lot of unceremonious scribbles in a notebook, but it's more than just that.

My life has always been about being something more. Seeing more, doing more, feeling more. I'll never be content with a "normal" life. But how can I be happy if I can't even manage to fill a page? It's the crisis of, God, what am I going to do? It's the panic of, I'm never going to make it. It's the fear of, I will never be who I want to be. I'm a kettle filled almost to the brim just waiting to bubble over, yet I'm scared I'll evaporate before I can.

I've never been one to want to anchor myself to the ground: I dream of floating with the stars. But sometimes our anchors find us. In the back of my mind, I feel that no matter what I do, I will have a gnawing suspicion that I'm nothing more than someone to leave, a stepping stone in the path to someone else being something more. I've never been afraid of being loud, but even though I speak, I wonder if anybody genuinely listens. If my words have meaning. If my experiences are relevant. This crippling weight on my shoulder is the beast that keeps me nestled within reality, and I am its prey to taunt. My inspiration bleeds from my eyes onto the pillow, dries.

Sometimes I forget that words are not my enemy, though every time I use them someone turns them against me. Perhaps that's why I've not written in so long, or perhaps my pills aren't working long enough to slow down my thoughts and string them into a sentence that makes sense. Maybe these thoughts weren't good enough to work with regardless of their speed. That, or I'm not good enough. I'm the bitter coffee you buy from a run-down, tacky cafe and spit out immediately, or the certificate you receive for just participating.

I've felt the mellowing numbness of my mind break out in bursts every so often for years now, spoiling the seemingly perpetual anger that resides white-hot in the pit of my stomach. I used to channel the energy of the betrayal into my writing, but recently, I haven't felt the storm inside me at all: my coast is calm, empty, and I wonder if the weather will change anytime soon before I lose the hope I so desperately cling onto like a lifeboat that'll save me. (The back of my mind knows it won't.)

This document isn't blank anymore, but I'm so used to staring at it like nothing's there that I can't stop. I've written something now - is that enough? Am I a writer, a God? Or just a girl with a broken mind and a heart that has a hole.