mkdaniella

Tonight
like so many other nights
i walk
it's dark
sheltered.
under scarce street lights,
thoughts, always thoughts
so many
in the gentle air
piercing my fragile consciousness
racing nervously, uncontrollably
what would happem
if i didn't spare these moments
just once
to feel sorry for myself
not stop to think
of all the songs i'll never hear
all the words i'll never read
and the ones i'll never write
all the images i'll never see
all the things i'll never feel
but the ones i will
and fight so hard
not to cultivate, in silence.
pictures of a life that could have been
it's so easy to have a voice and make excuses
it's so easy to find ways
not to do
what you dream of doing.
The frustrated artist is a coward.
I am a coward.
everyone has something to say
but it's so much easier not to
trying so desperately to escape mediocrity
and be the extraordinary
it's so much easier
to be extraordinarily sad
than extraordinarily happy
or is that just me?
what truly holds you back?
the fear of never having understanding
but does anyone?
or is it not knowing
if you would ever survive the journey?
yet there's nowhere to go
but forward
so i take the journey
screaming in silence
a coward.


I wrote this a long time ago and things have happened recently that made me question my progress. I am happy to report that i am at this moment only half a coward

I am at this moment trying to make sense of what comes out from the marriage of anger and insecurity... can we both be the picture of recovered addicts? being much better from having lived it and conquered it? can we beat our most debilitating of weaknesses, live to tell the story and live more healthy conscious lives?

the real question is can we do it while maintaining our tongue and cheeky sense of humor, forsaking the excessive drama and not sounding like faded motivational speakers?

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