poems

The past is dead. Yet we are still alive. The us, the me 5 minutes ago is dead.

That me will always be dead.

Our bodies produce more cells every second, a constant state of being reborn. Life is being alive. Life is the present. It is not the past nor is it the future.

I ask myself what will I do with my life. Which is just a synonym for “what am I going to do with my present?”

In this constant state of being reborn I change and reform myself like an essay with a pen that one day will run out of ink. That is inevitable.

So write yourself, it’s okay to misspell things or use the wrong wording. Just keep changing it and make sure your proud of it when the pen runs out

7/17/20

Anxiety

Everything.
Around me swirling,
Crashing, clicking

Im sorry.
Everything,
Small whispers,
Laughs thrown

In everything
Can you hear me?
My whispers,
My embarrassment.

Have talked too much?
Have overstepped?
Have i told you something wrong?

Im sorry
I apologize
Il take it back

Ill be quieter next time.
Im sorry

Can you repeat?
Can you rephrase?
I dont understand.

I did it wrong
I forgot
Im sorry

For everything,
Im sorry.

3/30/21