As a writer, I'm often thinking about ways to challenge myself to write about things I am afraid of. Whether it be types of poems or prose I think I'm afraid I'm not good at writing, or things that have happened to me that scared me or things that haven't happened to be, but I'm afraid they will. I find that that writing about these things can give me a better understanding of them even if I felt like I didn't understand them at all when I started writing about them. Writing about my fears has sometimes allowed me to confront them and take a more rational view on them. And sometimes it has actually made me a little more afraid of whatever I was writing about. I wrote this poem around this time 4 years ago while I was still in high school and it was the first time I forced myself to think about, write about, and create art out of something that had been causing me a lot of fear and a lot of sleepless nights.

Seamstresses

White walls, tile floors

the subtle hum of florescent lights

a constant reminder of how great the depth is of the shit I'm in

The scratchy sheets are woven from tales of past desperation

they curl up around me and claw their way into my ears and

they beg me to run while I can

while I'm still the architect

and while I can still crumple up the blueprints

While these white walls are still subject to change

And while I'm still in the driver's seat

I can crash this car

The wise elders who were the chiefs of this twisted tribe long before me

They call on me. They deplore me to see reason

Along with freedom always comes invisible insanity

At least for those of us tethered to these hallowed tile floors

Burning bleach is in my eyes and in my brain

My fears are being rummaged through

Buried in a squeaky old file cabinet

They're putting the scariest ones in frames

sculpted from Prozac and ornateness

And I'm thinking about how fast I had to run away.

Because right now

Is not a long, smooth road to control

This is a short driveway.

Pulling into a gallery of sterile souls

I'm wearing these blueprints as a warm sweater

And the wise past chiefs urge me to start the car again

My car is dead and my tires are slashed.

And reason not being an option, my limbs are tied up

And I'm stuck here.

Now passing my stories along to the elders who happen to be expert seamstresses