Sometimes writing can be a very freeing and cathartic experience, one that relieves pent-up energy or stress. It works the best when you’ve been working on something intensely and you realize how tightly wound you might be.

This piece was written a few weeks ago and can summarize said stresses and ways to maneuver through them:

 

Cathartic Scribbles

The only time I feel alive is when I write,

The only time I feel alright is when I recite,

Dark nights follow sullen days when I do neither,,

And that’s even after scents fluttering between rosebud and ether,

 

Deceiver of masks worn,

I hide away my face,

Pain and envy to happiness and delight I cover out of disdain,

We no longer read eyes and palms,

We pilot our needs through tiny airplanes with uncounted passengers,

Scammers and signal jammers leading to people outside with catheters,

 

Pissing ourselves for status that was wanted but never earned and needlessly sought after,

Crafted to bankrupt our souls or at the very least our money,

I’m all tapped out,

That’s why effort and enthusiasm I have so little to give,

In others I invested,

And thus why my emotive strength is bedridden,

 

Collapsed after kaiju-sized burdens crushed down their weight,

My shoulders built in Atlas fashion,

Never shrugging away even others to whom it was hard to relate,

I don’t want repaid debts,

 

I want investors in this life fueled with dreams,

I want skyscraper-sized behemoths,

Full of encouragement casings,

War ready I’ve been but peaceful balance disassociates within,

Balance is beyond Justice’s scales from my life instances, distances immeasurable,

 

Levels of pain unmet,

This isn’t depressions anxiety pain and stress,

This is the traumatic monster after effect,

And I’m just emerging out of this self-concocted cocoon,

 

There’s a lotta clutter to move,

And I’m ready to make some room.