In Loving Memory of My Old Self

I used to think that writer's block didn't exist

Until I suffered it myself when all the times

I suffered in silence, lied to protect myself

All came to catch up with me until one day

I could not take it anymore and reverted

back to my teenage ways and all the things

I loved simply became a chore and everything

became a distant memory like the waves of the sea

surfing me away to another dark place and

those I think have got my back just seem to be

no different than the demons that plague me

Did I say too much? Or not at all? What if I

kept my mouth shut, what if I kept speaking.

No it's all out now. The trauma was raw, valid and real

I'm fed up with people thinking they dictate my body

I don't care if they say they mean well they need to show it