Becoming a writer

My feelings scratch the surface trying to come out of my face, lips and eyes. Out of every crevice I have. They want to touch the piece of paper I am holding, they want to seep into it and fumble into words.I have gotten good at shoving them back in... stuffing them into a tiny box deep down in my soul that is stretching at its seams. People love writers but hate to read our work. Because things are too open, to true, to dark, or simply just to long for them. Become a writer they said, but don't write about the sad shit, don't write about feelings, write about a "she" and make it two sentences long. Always shoving, shoving feelings into boxes. Conform to the "good" writers and write a life that isn't yours. A life that is short and to the point, easily read quickly, and contains some motivational crap on how women should date from the eyes of a man. My box of wound up feelings is getting full and nothing good comes easy. If I wrote like everyone else, what kind of writer would I be? I empty my box, spill these words onto plank pages regardless of who’s reading. I feel free. The day I let what is popular conform my writing is the day my soul will die. Fame isn’t worth murdering my freedom. -M.D.L

Vulnerability

To me you are not the moon, a hurricane, or any other earthly force. You are exactly what you are. You are messy, Wild, carefree and breathtakingly human. You fucked up, gripped onto your pillow for dear life as you cried yourself to sleep over some guy. I watched your hands turn white from your grip as you clenched onto the pillow like it would save you, take you to some other realm. You were beautiful then, in the mess of it all. You were not gracious, not bold you were falling apart at your seams, heartbroken, filled to the brim with feelings. I laugh in the face of people who want to nickname you after bullshit natural forces. You are the most powerful fucking thing there is on this planet. You are human and you are the most beautiful when you show it. -M.D.L

Trauma

Trauma is not knowing if I can accept your love for fear it will leave me. Trauma is not knowing if I can accept your love for fear it will tear me apart from the inside out. Trauma rests inside me, like a rotting disease. Trauma is saying “sorry, I can’t love you, I don’t know how.” Trauma is saying “I’m sorry, I can’t accept your love because I fear it’s not real. “ Trauma is pain disguised as protection of ones self. Trauma rids us of the love we want most.- M.D.L

Sadness and me

Wallowing in gloom, this feeling fills this room. Don’t be sad they all say but they aren’t the ones who have tried to get away. Ive tried several times to escape, the sadness hangs over me like a drape. I’m no contest for sadness so I’ll just sink further into this mattress. I let it consume me, swallow me whole, I just give up all control. It won’t let me be free we have some type of bond, sadness and me. Sadness tells me it’s okay to feel, to let down my guard and be real. I don’t want to feel this way anymore so I try and close the door. The door to this madness, to the overwhelming sadness. The door is always cracked, waiting for how I’ll react. I just wanna leave with happiness in tact. Sadness is something that must be, it’s simply a part of me. Don’t be sad they all say, like it’s something that can just go away. The sadness in me is here to stay.