Add flesh to your poetry endoskeleton.
Accept the task handed to you, and stop pretending you cannot hear the voices in your head.
We are mere shadows of our former selves when we allow the bullies to get the upper hand.
I’m going to eat a roasted turkey and provolone sandwich on Tuscany bread, hoping that it will help beat back this depression.
Don’t forget you are one of the good ones, even though all the signs point to the opposite being true.
Our society loves to celebrate the art while shunning the artist. It’s just the way things seem to work in our overexposed and undervalued society of haves and have nevers.
I’m going to jump in the deep end and pray my endoskeleton survives. I’ve been afraid of deep water since before my bones fused together. At some point I must face my fears and stop haunting myself.
This writing is getting me nowhere fast, but it’s the only thing that feels right. I refuse to go against my gut instincts, no matter if I end up on the street with nothing but a cardboard box to call my home.
The good news is I haven’t pulled out my hair in quite some time. The bad news is I haven’t been in anything even close to a relationship in over ten years.
This poetry skeleton is the scaffolding that supports my humanness.
I’m just a shell of my former self, but I am not complaining because there are still many poems to write before the darkness comes a-calling and leads me into the light.