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Literature Text
i don't remember telling you that it was ever okay
or that i was ever okay. because honesty should be number one
and the truth is simply that i stopped being okay
a long time ago, at about the same time that
i became a writer:
not when i picked up a pencil and wrote a sloppy letter "m".
not when i taught myself to type on the computer
-- and came up with millions of stories.
not even when i thought my life was
f
a
l
l
i
n
g a p a r t .
writing: a form of self-expression,
something that can be used - and abused
but when it became my way of showing my true colors
that's when
i became a writer:
after nights of crying myself to sleep
(over trivial things that at one time mattered)
because that was when i learned that
there was one weapon i have on my side: words.
and now my mind is tainted with depression that's
mingled with thoughts and ideas to create
a wave of imperfect and unprofessional "poetry".
because i became a writer (not author, nor poet) and now that's what i do.
or that i was ever okay. because honesty should be number one
and the truth is simply that i stopped being okay
a long time ago, at about the same time that
i became a writer:
not when i picked up a pencil and wrote a sloppy letter "m".
not when i taught myself to type on the computer
-- and came up with millions of stories.
not even when i thought my life was
f
a
l
l
i
n
g a p a r t .
writing: a form of self-expression,
something that can be used - and abused
but when it became my way of showing my true colors
that's when
i became a writer:
after nights of crying myself to sleep
(over trivial things that at one time mattered)
because that was when i learned that
there was one weapon i have on my side: words.
and now my mind is tainted with depression that's
mingled with thoughts and ideas to create
a wave of imperfect and unprofessional "poetry".
because i became a writer (not author, nor poet) and now that's what i do.
Inspired by intricately-ordinary's 
Before I Can Become a WriterDevelop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitable,
the way my family never
loved me right, the way my
first kiss was regrettable
at best, the way my therapist
says my depression is a demon
taking over me. Cry for the
changeable, the way
I hate my body and my writing
and everything I live to be.
Use clichés. Live clichés,
breathe clichés, be
a cliché. Write a poem
about ho
I love the movement she's created - there are so many people who've used her little prompt to come up with their own beautiful pieces; I keep coming across them and each is unique and it's fun to read how others have interpreted the idea 
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Comments15
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"there was one weapon i have on my side: words." yes