I shall be a toad "Think as I think," said the man, "or you are abominably wicked. You are a toad." "I think," I said, upon reflection, "that I shall be a toad." ~ Stephen Crane

I am imperfect and damaged
but trying.

I am a walking contradiction –
happy and sad,
lonely and loved.
I am scared and fearless.

I am a woman fighting,
always fighting.
I am coping as best I can.

I am smiles in one breath
and rage in another,
a mess of emotions
I don’t know how to control.

I am old in spirit
and so very young in understanding.

I am weary and tattered.
I’ve lived a hundred lives
and worn a hundred faces,
all on the way to finding me.
I’m not there yet.

I am the voices screaming in my head.
All of them.

I am not who you see.
Not always.

I am searching for acceptance
and love
and importance.

I am searching for that touch –
the one that says I’m okay.
Because I don’t know it on my own.

I am honest,
brutally so,
with others, yes –
but mostly with myself.

I know my shortcomings.
I wish I didn’t.
I want to find a better me,
a more complete me,
a functional me.

I am searching.
I am learning.
I am trying.

This poem was bred from a One Minute Writing post I wrote several weeks ago.

it’s not strength that keeps me safe –
it’s weakness . . .
it’s not sanity that keeps me moving forward –
it’s fear . . .

rage spreads through my limbs,
a wildfire of words spoken and words kept silent . . .
of loneliness and isolation and irrelevance,
a quelling only accomplished with one vice or another . . .
socially unacceptable actions are the self-medication of choice . . .

when i’m strong enough.

it’s always easier after the first touch . . .
the exhalation purges the disease inside my head . . .
even if only temporarily . . .

are just melodrama and angst and the only way to purge it is to write it down and throw it into the world . . . . .

tired and worn . . .
stretched and pulled and beaten . . .
tired of the inadequacy . . .
need to get out of my head.
easily discarded and thrown away . . .
never can be what they want me to be . . .
never can be what I want me to be.
stupid for my naivety . . .
for thinking I meant more . . .
or maybe I’m just making mountains again.
think too much . . .
need to get out of my head.

no energy left . . .
want to run away . . .
want the world to disappear . . .
want to feel like I mean something.

want to cut, want to burn . . .
just want to make the world disappear . . .
need that control . . .
need to make the rest of this go away.

sorry I couldn’t be everything . . .
sorry I couldn’t be more . . .
sorry I couldn’t be perfect . . .
sorry I wasn’t good enough.

always trying to make it right . . .
make it better . . .
hate myself for not being good enough.

I feel so fucking stupid.

Put on a happy face and pretend like everything’s all right . . .

pretend like my heart isn’t breaking . . .

pretend like I’m not falling apart. 

Act as if . . .

as if all is well . . .

shallow answers to shallow questions . . .

Yearning to scream . . .

tell the world I can’t be who they want me to be . . .

I just can’t. 

Tired, weak, and I don’t want to feel. 

can’t sleep . . . rest comes in small short-lived waves. 

Inside feels so small,

outside much too large.

I feel cramped or exposed

and I don’t know which is worse. 

keeping up pretenses . . .

allowing the world to continue to see what they’ve always seen.