It’s never easy. It’s never easy saying something—trying, searching, figuring it out somehow. Delving into the recesses of the mind, dragging that meaning out. Out from the bars, out from the lobbies, from the convenience stores. Dragging that meaning out. Beating it up, stomping it in the teeth—somehow. Getting it out, but not so much that you kill it.

I try my best. Get these thoughts out. Say something. Anything. Something real. Something that’s not hiding behind another thing. I look, I wonder—why can’t you say something? Something plain, something raw, something unvarnished. Something that doesn’t need to be delivered in such a way that requires something sweet to swallow it.

I want this to be the raw pill. No water. I want to swallow it. Choke if I have to. Say just anything that is of the moment—that *is* the substance.

I really just don’t get it sometimes. I don’t get why expressing something is hard. I don’t get why revealing something—*even if it’s ugly*—is so difficult. And it just sucks sometimes, you know?

Ah. Sometimes I feel like—who am I even talking to? I don’t know. I’m talking to no one. No one is impressed. Who the hell cares about the style? I don’t. But goddamn, this means something to me.

It means something to actually *feel.* And do it soberly. I don’t need something to assist me. I don’t need a crutch. I don’t need booze or pills or something that somehow raises the spirits from the dead, possesses me, speaks through me—*fuck that.* Fuck the spirits. Fuck the muses.

I speak for myself.

My words are like fists. And I *sing.* I *speak.* I’m *wild.* Thumping at you, dropping you, cracking you against the skull. And as you fall, I yell at you—*Get up. Get up, you coward.*

I’m not done with you.

I will thump you. I will thump the living daylights out of you. You have not felt my power. You have not felt *my words.* You have not felt my **bite.** And I got bite. *Damn it, I got bite.* Like a snake with fangs. I strike.

And that’s what I’m trying to express. That’s what I’m trying to do. That’s what I’m trying to *feel.* I just gotta train myself. Train these wits. Because my thoughts—*I gotta be in fighting shape.*

And I’m ready, man. I’m ready to be let out.

I’m here to dance. I’m here to shake.

And I’m coming for you.

I’m *coming.*

I will give this meaning. I will give this thought.

I will speak it—speak it into reality.

And my words—they’ll be made flesh.

As I call these things into being, they will be *here.*

Because I’m *brave enough.*

To speak.
To express.
To drag this kicking and screaming, *bloody*, out.
To get to the meaning, raw, with power.

Photo credit: hebanm (Instagram)

@sizz