Posted: July 29th, 2011 | Filed under: life | Tags: | No Comments »

Writing is my therapy. Most of what I write is never read. It’s me getting through a moment, bleeding it dry, then throwing the poison out. Sometimes I think I would be a great song writer. I can take a moment that is sopping with emotion and wring every last bit of it onto the paper. But, I’m too private to let it be read. Writing is too vulnerable. But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? Real can only connect with real. We all have insecurities that we keep pushed out of the public eye. We laugh so that we don’t cry. We say “she” when we mean “I”. We skip out when we can’t fake it. We dress baggy when we don’t have the strength to suck it in.

We all have an inner voice that torments us into hiding. We think we have to keep it together or everyone will leave us. Like they’re the child and you’re the broken toy.

Quite a while back I wrote a poem when my my life didn’t rhyme. My inner voice constantly told me that I didn’t exist. Something is always trying to tell me that I don’t matter. There are always ways to turn it into something religiously significant, but that only takes away from the intestinal level of humanity. Everything is significant and you don’t have to put a religious ™ to give it significance. We are human beings. We were created this way. It’s all significant.

Insecurity puts words in another’s mouth that they never said. Insecurity keeps us from asking them to just come out and say it. Insecurity is normal and, at least for me, it’s fleeting. That’s why I don’t offer myself to it. Sometimes it’s caused by a lack of sleep, or a misinterpreted remark, or a hormonal flux. I don’t buy into it, but I’ll write through it.

So, if you’re feeling invisible, forgotten, or insignificant, then this post is for you.

This is a piece of my writing that has never seen the light of day. I don’t remember what, exactly, brought this on, but that’s what happens when you let some light in after creating in the dark. The emotion is gone, but the art remains. I titled this ‘ghost’ and it’s me talking back to my “demons” who tell me I don’t exist and, at the time, I wasn’t sure if I did.

you don’t exist.
oh, little ghost, go away. i think they think you’re me.
you’re tormenting me. i’m believing crazy things.
you’re bullying me into a corner.
you don’t exist.
‘little ghost. little ghost.
what i’m scared of the most.’
i can’t see anyone anymore. is it you or is it me?
are you all that’s left?
we must exorcise.
but, not me! i’m still here.
aren’t i?
you don’t exist.
is it true, are they right?
i’m alone.
i have no fight left.
i can still hear you. i can still see.
they come in and take what’s mine.
i watch them come and i watch them go.
i watch them leave without taking me.
when i talk, i’m not heard
when i cry, i do so it’s not seen.
they’re lying to me and i believe them.
i would raise a flag, I would raise a fist,
but they won’t see.
a ghost.


This is a side note, but this photo was taken as a screen shot for a 20's period movie I was going to do about a ghost.

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