Shitty Poetry

Sometimes when my brain is full, I try and write some shitty poetry to get it out of my head.  I call it shitty poetry, because it is a combination of stream of conscious psychobabble and ill-flowing prose that really makes no sense to anyone but me:

I walk on a blurred line of calm and chaos.  I’m doing too much and have so little time.  My needs and my wants are conflicting more and more and I am getting older and older and growing more and more tired.  I want to write.  I want to get a nursing degree.  I want to write on my days off, and help others on my days on.  I want to heal people with my hands and my words.  And when my time here is done, I want to have made a difference.

I feel like a walking storm all of the time.  I want my sick, chaotic brain to find peace.  I want to find balance.  I want happiness. But I never make it about me.  Maybe I should start.  Because my chest feels tight, and the air is getting harder to suck into my lungs.  My outer shell has been cracking off in small pieces for quite sometime, and I fear it’s going to start chunking off.  I am afraid, because I can’t tell if I’m simply molting… or losing myself…


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