Self Reflection

It doesn’t matter what I do,
My words will live far past my expiration date.
They’ll be engraved down in people’s mental,
My words,
I started something that I never had the intention of ending.
Carved my own name in the bark of a tree, then dug my feet at the base of it and told it to save a place for me.
I am everything that you think that I am and more.
Constantly evolving,
While quietly praising myself for not crashing out after every life event that redirects me to the brick walls that is still trying to prevent me from being fucking great.
I am writing these words with an empty mind.
Collecting whatever I can grab as I force myself to step out of my own comfort zone.
Peeling away these scabs that are covering my brain just so I can expose it to new things that I am still trying to understand.
And although I would rather not continue to write about past, current or even future events
I unfortunately cannot help but notice the melanin that covers my skin,
The melanin that fills every single hair follicle on my body, it is the same melanin that fills the irises in my eyes.
I cannot help but notice the world that I had to adjust to fall apart in real time.
Witness the birth of a new world that I am not even sure I will ever be comfortable enough to call it my home.
Yet here I am trying my best to understand and provide understanding to those who do not understand that I am just another artist that is trying to create a portrait of the life that I desperately need to build for my future self.
Please tell me that you understand.
I cannot express the amount of time and energy that I invest in pretending that things are okay when really, they are not.
To continue to write or rather create something that is suitable for others to critique.
I cannot say that I am new to this although every time I sit in front of this keyboard, I cannot help but question every single poem that I create.
Is it good, is it great, is it okay, is it readable, do I understand it?
Would anybody else understand it, am I overthinking this shit?
Should I even continue to do this shit?
What is the meaning behind these words that I am forcing out of my mind?
Why the fuck am I judging my shit so harshly?
Fuck, do I really need to roll one up so I can fucking get grounded?
I stand behind every single poem that I create.
Drive myself crazy each time I wonder if I have said enough.
Whether I must cut down some trees and create my own path I will do what I must do to make sure I am heard.
I am an artist, a poet, hell I am even a storyteller.

He stood before the mirror and examined himself.
I can't say how long he stared but I knew it was longer than expected.
There were no words spoken,
He spoke not one word...
I thought that he would, because he usually does.
Instead, he just turned and walked away.
He didn't even look back...
He just left me there, looking at the mirror.