One of the worse parts of anxiety

is the irrational worries and fears

it puts in my head.

Or maybe it’s the hours spent up at night,

lying in bed crying,

where I whisper to myself that it’s not real.

they’ll never happen.

Just keep pushing past them.

But what am I supposed to do

when one of those fear turns out to be true?

The pain going through my being

is inconsolable.

How do I tell myself that nightmares

are not real when they become reality?

A wise characer from a book

I once read long ago

believed that that only way out

of the labrynith of suffering was

straight and fast.

Maybe she was on to something.

Maybe she was crazy.

Maybe she was lonely.

Maybe she was depressed.

Maybe she was a lot more like me

than I’d like to admit.

But maybe she was right.


I’ve never been one to mind a little rain.

Everything needs a little water to grow.

It’s when the hurricanes hit that I begin to quake.

A little rain won’t hurt they say,

but what do you do when you’re drowning?

Drowning in despair, emotions, thoughts

with no idea when or why the storm had to strike now.

Maybe you’ll get some false hope

in an eye of the storm where

you’ll let yourself believe

that it can get better; it will get better

only to be hit by the other half of the storm,

far more furious than the last.

All you can do is bunker down and stay inside,

hoping that this storm won’t be your last.

But that’s hard to do when you know at the end,

when the sun decides to make a reappearance,

you’ll be faced with the devastation and despair

that came from the havoc and furry of the beast.

It’s hard to let yourself rebuild everything up

when you know that at any moment

another hurricane could strike and tear you right back down.

I’d like to believe that horrible cyclones are few and far between,

but I’m more realistic than that.

Whether I intended to or not, I have to realize

that my life has set its roots on the coastline

and I am forever destined to keep being hit

by bad hurricanes over and over

and the only way out is to either succumb

or get my shit together and move out,

but that’s a lot more strength than you’ll find

behind these batters doors .

It’s Been 1 Year!

A year ago, I entered a writing contest on Wattpad and came very close to winning.

It may very well be one of the best pieces I’ve ever written but I’ve always been too scared to share it with you. It’s raw. It’s passionate. It shares a part of myself that I’ve often found myself too scared to admit to. I’ve always feared that sharing this piece would hurt me in new ways beyond my imagination. I’ve always known that it may ruin my life as I know it.

I wrote the piece anyways.

Because sometimes you have to say the things you’re scared to say, even if it’s not out loud.

Even if it kills you.

In celebration of the anniversary of when I spoke my truth, I wanted to share it with my followers.



(Good chance this might be the last you hear from me for a while so soak it up).


Things have changed since then. I know things now that I didn’t know then. And while yes I know I’ll never be enough and some questions are left unasked or answered,  I also know if you don’t let some things go, they slowly eat away at your soul.


I’m also very drunk and there’s a good chance I’ll regret this tomorrow, but a good friend told me that if it’s your time, it’s your time and this feels like it. I don’t know. What’s the worst that could happen? I lose my will to live? ha! Jokes on you I already did.

Choices for Voices

We have choices, choices, choices

to be made with difference voices.

And sometimes you speak too loud

because you’re feeling way too proud.

Other times you sit by, mute

your own horn afraid to toot.

It’s hard to tell when to take stand

or when to simply wave your hand.

You want to speak up for yourself

but may only hurt yourself.

What Are We?

I’m tired of the game

and trying to explain

just how you hurt me.


With all of your words

I’m split into thirds

thinking what are we?


Your power you flaunt;

don’t know what you want.

You keep changing your key.


You’re back and you’re forth

What is my worth?

Baby, what are we?


You’re up and You’re down

I’m flipped around;

a ship lost at sea.


You’re always my choice

but I’m losing my voice.

What about me?


Decide our plot.

Want this or not?

What are we?


Sometimes all I can do

is share just the tip of the iceberg

of what makes me depressed.

It’s usually som superficial reason,

I know.

But I can’t find the words to share

about the tons of heavy ice

beneath the surface

that actually make me want to die.

So no one really understands

what the things weighing me down are.

They just see the silly, stupid things

that set me off on a plunge

and think I’m not worthy of help

or love

or attention

because why would sleeping in

be enough reason to kill yourself?

Nobody cares about that.

So no one hears about all the things that came after

like the dreams

or the self-destructive thoughts

or bringing my worth down.

Or feeling like a failure.

Because why would anyone

understand that all these things

are just a result of sleeping late.