My Words

I haven't written in so long. I mean truly written. I lost that part of my self somewhere along the way. Why don't I think up crazy crackpot original dream stories? Why do I no longer channel my rage into biting poems? Where has the therapy of words gone? Now I can only create from what is already created. Where have I gone? Abandoned, I guess, to the endless, mind numbing need to fill myself with others stories, Why not my own? I'm never even satisfied, not completely, with what others create. I would always look to change something, or write the story myself. I need to write my own story or someone else's, but it must be my words. It has too. Nothing else will do. I refuse to let this part of me die. Not to the endless homework assignments or actual work, actual responsibility. I'm not blaming responsibility for this loss because it is completely my own. I should handle the responsibility better though, in a way that allows my creativity to exist, my imagination to breathe. I want to have ideas, grand ones, and I want to scream them to anyone who will listen. I need to listen first though, otherwise, no one else will. Then again, my stories will not rise, instead, they will sink into the murky depths beyond human reach. I will not let that happen. No more of this. I have to think, I have to create. I can't wish for school to use me up, take the energy from my mind. No, I have to use it myself. I have to. Otherwise, what am I? I'm not me if I cannot find a way to use my mind creatively and effectively. No more giving up, giving in. It is default to slip into other stories, but it's time to create my own. This is just the beginning.

This poem is about: 
Me

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