There is a moment
in everyday I have been alive,
which is too many to count
and growing by the spinning
of this orb we call our home,
that I have thought about who
I want to call myself
and about finally writing that novel
I’ve been penning in my head
for so many years.

When it comes down to it,
I am the only thing
that has ever stopped me
from being truly honest with myself.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out
for this. Maybe I don’t know
why exactly I was born.
And I tell myself
every one of those days
that I will learn from my mistakes
and finally make a change.
I will finally put onto paper
what I have been thinking
all of this time.

I don’t, and it isn’t because
I have no talent with words.
But, I do believe that I simply
can’t put anything onto paper.

Except for self-motivational,
”I’ll learn my lesson,
I’ll make something of myself”
kind of bullshit that
makes me cringe and
feel stupid. I am tired
of telling myself I am better
when obviously I am worse.

And all I want to do,
every second of every day,
is finally write what I’ve been meaning to.

The sad thing is, I know what to say.
I know what I feel,
and I know what’s the matter.
And I know how to tell the story.
It’s all this contempt,
all this pent up, unreliable anger,
that keeps getting in my way.

06/01/2008

Posted on 06/01/2008
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson