I am obsessive and anxious and hopeful.
I wonder if my dreams are too big to fit into reality.
I hear that train of thought, chugging on the endless railroad that is my mind.
I want to know what it’s like to worry about nothing at all.
I am obsessive and anxious and hopeful.
I pretend that I’m a consistent writer, but inspiration rarely strikes anymore.
I feel the weight on my soul to achieve my own personal perfection (or hell).
I touch my wrist so I may remind myself that I’m alive. Act like it, idiot.
I worry endlessly, always. No mercy. No relief.
I cry from frustration, stress, anger, rejection, laughter, success. I cry over everything.
I am obsessive and anxious and hopeful.
I understand that you can’t just sit there and wait to live, so I don’t. And it kills me.
I dream because, when I sleep, sometimes my worries sleep too.
I try so hard that it literally hurts.
I hope that all of this is worth it in the end.
I am obsessive and anxious and hopeful.
I desire success and recognition and happiness and a stress-free life. I desire not to be so proud.
I am obsessive and anxious and hopeful.
And if anyone cares to carry half of my worries for me, just for a second, please contact me below.