Sometimes I try so hard but the words won’t come and they sit heavy in the pit of my stomach like stones and they make my eyes fill and my head thick and I can’t concentrate or think because the words aren’t there and they are impossible to put down on paper or to release into the air and the only way to express them is through your own consciousness but no one can hear it but you and the sound of it makes your head spin and your hands shake and its like withdrawal from silence and the words won’t leave until you find the ways to string them together into coherency and tell them to the world if the world will listen but most of the time the world has blocked its ears and outside of their own minds the world is muffled and all I try to do is release my thoughts and all they want to do is hear their own and you can’t reread your consciousness because if you do you might think of all the things that are wrong with the flow of the words and the breaks and the pauses and that doesn’t really matter because in the end it came from you and that’s real honesty and sometimes honesty doesn’t have to be beautiful, as long as its real and true and if it comes from your head and your heart then I think it is

Things like this are the best way to release yourself because in the end it doesn’t matter who reads it or likes it or hates it and it doesn’t matter if it rhymes or if the grammar is right or if spelling is present at all because all that matters is your hands on the keyboard or the pencil or whatever else you have and the flow of thoughts out into another medium and out of the cluttered filing cabinets that are your brain and the paragraphs that put them into folders and the sentences that label them in thick black sharpie that smells like memories and other forgotten silly things and its all okay because nothing really matters in the end except how you are remembered and who loved you and how you lived and how you handled yourself because in twenty years no one is going to remember how heavy you were in high school or what college you went to or how you did in chemistry and what they will remember is what you did with your life and how much you lived and how your life turned out to be and who you loved and who loved you and what you really truly were inside that mind of yours which until you learn to let go will be forever imprisoned in your skull and the prison walls can only crack when you learn that maybe speaking isn’t crazy and maybe this long stream of fragmented beautiful creations could be a work of art if only to yourself and that maybe this is the most important thing you will ever write and no one will even see it and maybe that’s ok because maybe some things are just for you and that isn’t selfish at all