Journalism Suicide

Location

I meant to tell you

that I wrote the other day,

but I kept silent

because I wrote about my fears.

And it’s all the words

I never can say.

I knew if I told you,

you’d know the contents of my heart

and is that too much

of a risk to take?

No.

My passion?

It’s fading.

The words no longer stream out of me.

Why, words? You are

My life.

I meant to tell you

that I wished the other day,

but I kept silent

because I wished for my passion,

my dedication,

my rage,

my life and my

long lasting

Love

For my words.

Anxiety is taking over me.

I can’t think.

I can’t do anything.

Like thunder, it drowns out the

sounds.

The sounds in my mind that tell me

everything will be alright.

This anxiety is holding me.

But why?

Why is my crime

a part of my own mind?

I am my own captor

and I am far too strong

To Let

Myself

Go

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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