Sun.

You are much warmer

Than you think. You are my warmth,

You are my jacket.

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Anger.

A number of therapists I’ve gone to have told me that writing helps with anger. 

Years and endless drafts of stories, poems and lyrics I have found that it does not. The anger intensifies with every stroke of the pen. Then I get to see what I have written and nine times out of ten it has made me angrier. Perhaps it was poorly written and didn’t execute what I was trying to say. Perhaps I just drew a blank and it doesn’t make sense. The majority of the time though, it just makes me focus on the issue that is angering me. 

Not more than a half-hour ago I admitted to myself, out loud, that I was still angry about something that had happened approximately around the end of December beginning of January. I won’t dive into details, but it involves a number of people I love (my family and my significant other) as well as myself being taken advantage of and disrespected. 

My many therapists have also told me not to hold on to the anger or to “let it go” as well as “don’t regret”. I detest both of these phrases. Some things I cannot let go and that is one of my many genetic flaws. I regret not stepping in sooner when I saw the people I love being mistreated. I regret not stopping things sooner when I realized how poorly I was being treated. There was a catch though. 

I allowed this to go on because the perpetrator at hand had a mental disability. I will not openly disclose which one but I will say that it involves the 15q11-13 chromosomal region.

I am made up of nothing but bones and anger. My heart only beats when I’m fired up. The blood in my system has dried out and been replaced with a fire. 

 

 

Observations.

It’s weird, the way people view writers. We’re viewed as brooding, substance abusers, and arrogant. Other writers though, those that write reviews for films, albums, and even food, are viewed as some type of god. Almost as if what they say is the last word. 

I’ll admit, I enjoy a nice drink every now and again. I also enjoy getting drunk some nights. I also enjoy going to school and work because I know I can’t make a career out of writing. I don’t typically write like this, I’m more of a lyricists. I’ve only recently started writing fiction again. My problem with fiction though, I never know where it ends. 

Everything I write, whether it be lyrics to a song or a story, is all told from my perspective. But does that make it non-fiction? Some nights I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if I’m actually living in reality. The technology we have today, I don’t remember having as a child (to be fair I was born in 1991). 

As soon as I typed in the year I was born, I could feel your facial expressions change. Now my knowledge is limited due to me being 21. I receive this a lot, more often than one would think. Even in classrooms. The place where I’m supposed to be learning and expanding my knowledge, ridicules me for my young age.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I just know I had to write it.