, , , , ,

Low self esteem and depression can point writing down some dark emotional pathways. The day this next poem came into being, the emotional dam opened up and words tumbled off fingers like billions of gallons of water through an open spillway.

Not the tamest of language to be sure, but raw, full of angst, and descriptive of a real and present turmoiled heart, but viable nonetheless. I did get this poem vetted by a number of people before posting. There are some things I must fulfill on my own. Others I need a support team to help me along…

Today’s hot off the heart poem…

I Could Be…But I Won’t

I’m not fucking broken
Can’t you see that?
Can’t you see I’m just devastatingly destroyed?
What’s the fucking difference, are you kidding me?

Everyone wants to fix shit.
Pity and sorry and what a shame.
I’ve experienced enough shame.
What about commiseration for a start?

My pain rocks the foundations of my self esteem
Hell, self esteem is something I stumble over;
Foundations buried by the sands of ridicule and humiliations
Most of which I throw at myself.

Where is that woman who understands?
Why do I think/believe/know/resign that I need her?
Ultimately she is right here, right now.
She embodies these words. She is writing. She is my therapy.

I’m not fucking broken, damnit.
I’m damaged. I’m functioning. I’m strong.
I’m not fucking broken, although I could be,
But I won’t…