I have been writing a lot of poems lately, scribbling in my notebook, clickety clacketing my day away at the keyboard, just spilling words. I get that now, the term 'spilled ink' that is used on the internet for words and poems that are given away like these little gifts. My spilled ink comes whether I want it to, whenever it wants to now.
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There are some memories that I am scared of losing, ones that I want to preserve. I am afraid that if I don't write about them when they are clear in my head, though the moments are already years in the past, they will be lost to me forever. Not just muddled and faded and uncertain, but completely gone, and I do not find that acceptable. So the words come and I write them down because I have to, and this is the first time that I have ever felt like I have to do it. I have to get these things out, I don't want to keep them inside any longer.
Coincidentally, I have to keep reminding myself that my thoughts matter. These memories matter to me, these words matter to me. I have to keep reminding myself that whether the words matter to others is of no consequence and should not - cannot - dictate what I do with them.
I try so hard to tell myself that I don't care what other people think of me.
But of course I do.
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I want to be one of those people who just doesn't give a fuck. It seems like it must be so easy, life, for people who let negativity roll away off their backs. And not just negativity, because negativity is negotiable. I can take your negativity and compartmentalize it and explain it away that it's your problem, no matter how annoying it is.
It's judgement that is the problem.
I want to show up and open my mouth and be known, and not give a fuck if you reject me.
Who can do that, though? Can you?
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