Its Often All the Same to Me

you always wonder what people will think when you write about something personal for a group of people. you wonder who will read it when you make it public, you wonder who will tell you they read it, and i think above all else you wonder what their reaction will be. for me thats the most nerve wrecking part!i want to know what theyre thinking but i dont want to ask them.



they say that silence is deafening, and i only think theres truth to that because the silence allows your own mind to think what it wants as loudly as it wants to. its almost like you have this strange internal argument where the rational side of you is trying to talk the irrational side down from the ledge, only to realize that nothing is working. we still try to calm ourselves down anyway. we dont want to speak the lunacy out loud because we want it to be our secret that were crazy...well get over that notion right quick because it doesnt work that way.


when i wrote this poem i did so for someone else, and they had no prior knowledge. most days i have plenty to say on my own, but every now and then whatever im saying im not saying for me. you cant always put things into perspective for yourself, sometimes you need someone on the outside looking in to do it for you. now by no means am i on the outside of this situation, but in the brief moments it took me to write this, i was, standing on the outside. and when i was done writing it the irrational side of me ran towards the edge of the cliff with record pace. this dark cloud of doubt had settled over what i had just done, these unrealistic ramifications settled in and made me feel incapable of sharing it.


life, death, love, loss, grief, anger, etc...all of these are very touchy subjects to write about, especailly when the subject is real and present. i wrote "maybe its enough" three weeks before i posted it for the public eye. granted, all the doubt couldve played a significant role in the timing of this particular piece, but i had no reason to doubt at all. i only know of one person whos read it. it just so happens that this person is the reason i wrote it in the first place. she didnt have to tell me and she certainly didnt have to thank me, but she did.


its been said that people put pen to page to make sense of the confusing and bring peace to a restlessness within them. i like writing for myself, for me its the fastest way that i can make sense of my world. but truth be told i would rather bring peace to someone elses world, there is no greater feeling than that, someone elses sigh of relief. that brings peace to me just the same.