I study literature and often

they come looking for writers

for all sorts of things

-magazines and contests-

and there's always hands up

hands of all those kids who proudly write.

I never say I write

nor I ever will.

Because I don't.

I can't write.

I can only feel.

What I feel is usually shitty.

L.

"Renovation requires us 

to tear down what is outdated.

Let. Me. Break. You."

I dreamt about you yesterday

And what a bitch I was to you.

I don't miss you.

But you sure deserved better than me.

Good thing you hate me now.

L.

How is it so simple for most people?

How do they not feel like they're constantly

drowning in everything they feel?

Am I just a shitty swimmer?

Toss me a life-jacket already, 

everything's too heavy.

I'm tired of swimming.

L.

"How can I be better?" 

I asked you, this tiny teen with dorky smile

You looked away from us

and stared at the parking lot.

"Be more you,

Less sad you,

We all love you."

I made all of you take turns

thinking you would destroy me.

Teenagers are honest about their opinions

on other people.

Almost always.

Be more you

Less sad you

We all love you.

You didn't destroy me,

you scotch-taped me together.

Thank you.

L.

"It" constantly gets to me. By "it" I mean everything. This eternal and non-stopping circle of stuff that doesn't take breaks from happening. Sometimes I need my breaks but when I take them, "it" rushes past me and I can't help feeling left behind.

Weird, huh? How some people manage life with such inspiring and graceful ease, and here I am, suffocated by all the happenings and passings and stressing out by the thought of not ever being able to catch up.

My therapist says I've got a lot on my plate and that my constant worries are understandable and even "natural" but others seem to be in an all-you-can-eat buffet of "it" and plating up spoonful after spoonful of that sticky and gooey mix of "it" and enjoying it like it was a delicious piece of cake while I drown on my quarter cup of "it".

And of course, my mother -oh, sweet mother- obviously nagged me for being dramatic and emphasized how I've got it so much better than African kids... and this made my feeling worse, because on the side of my suffocation and panic about the future, I also get to feel ungrateful and selfish... Ahh, how refreshing!

So life's been good, anxiety has been better and my will to live is out the window (heh). Anyway... Some poetry has been written. I'll share soon.

-L.