It Starts With Me

it keeps coming up,

the nervous lump in my throat,

like chunks of vomit,

like the bitter taste of mouthwash

escaping my mouth down the dingy drain,

the bleakness of life unfolding with every passing moment,

until i touch pen to paper,

flowing ink dampens the page,

and i begin to think...

as a writer, I feel pressured

i feel this need to bare my soul

to the world in the smallest of ways

oftening spending my days

with this insatiable hunger for knowledge

and happiness and love

in the evening i escape into my mind and thoughts

forgetting the stresses of the early hours,

when my body is endlessly tired

and i feel like my creative spark has expired

all i wish is to be admired for

my passion, love, my sparkling fire

instilling a new hope for my readers

even so, i feel my nerves

with every churn, my stomach turns

and sometimes i really start to feel hopeless, numb

but i refuse to give up, i refuse to say "i'm done"

just when i think i have no story left to tell,

i find an idea, or a line, something swell to say or

do or be, or show you the inside of the mind of me

there's something that we all must never forget:

we have to hold onto our dreams with everything we've got

because even on our worst days,

in the cool evening air, as i write these words,

half awake and half asleep,

when i feel like there is nothing left to live for,

i have to remember my purpose;

that sometimes mindlessly writing stupid words on this page

is better than having written nothing at all

that nobody got anywhere by being lazy,

and i can't just stop my dreams because i am tired

even with the warmth of my blanket around me,

the cool gusts of air wisp me away into this dream-like state,

sending cold chills down my spine

but i tell myself, even if my hand starts to ache,

i must keep going, keep moving on

if i want to truly make a difference, here and now,

if i want to become what i was always meant to be,

i have to start somewhere---

and that starts with me.