a storm I can't control
There’s a violent storm inside. I can’t see it. But it’s there. Ready to burst open and take away layers of correctness society stacked on me. My words have improved in flow and richness. But real voice is still muffled underneath absorbed opinions. Sometimes, it crawls out in unexpected times. Like a performance I can’t replicate. Or dreams I can’t direct. It disappears but leaves behind a taste. Then I crave it harder.
I’ve been writing in consistent desperation. How did I ever sound? Where has that rebellious voice gone? I don’t know. It hurts when these words still sound borrowed. Years of pretentious actions have turned me domestic. Vines of societal expectations tangled inside. If I knew a process to burn them away, I’d do it. Even if it required a steep price. Even if that meant losing my mind. I’d rather be insane than a replica of someone else.