a girl and her boy

. daily life : wool obsession : bibliomania : living on purpose .

Drowning in Langauge

I’ve been running from something for quite some time, hiding behind banal smiles and pleasant projects. It’s the knowledge that my voice has been quiet. For too long. I can’t remember the last time I argued. Or really really wanted to yell. But I do tonight. I want to kick and scream and claw and shake down the structures that have trapped my voice deep inside, making it quieter and quieter, more and more difficult to tap into. I read. I journal. I write. But about nothing in particular. And that is fucking annoying.

I pulled out my binders packed with notes from college, full of side comments to friends sitting next to me in lecture or workshop. I’m inundated with questions and advice but no answers. What legitimizes our current situation? What legitimizes our writing? Not the story but how you tell it. The kind of poetry you write is a reflection of  your status and circumstances.

Well. Damn. Then I’m dead.

Not dead though.


But not for long.


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