these days

it seems every coworker and friend that comes my way

stops and asks me

“Are you okay?”

“You don’t seem like yourself today.”

and I want to say

“Well I don’t even know who I am, anyway.”

I want to say something witty, something quick,

something to make them feel silly for asking

one of my most hated questions ...


I can’t.

Even the word fine causes fault lines,

they see the cracks on my face

and I feel any minute the tears will start to leak out,

but I swallow hard and push them down.

And normally, when someone asks,

I just roll my eyes.

Normally, I carry on, feeling alright,

but this time,

I feel like I’m selling everyone a huge lie

when I nod my head and plaster on a smile,

my heart cries.

And because people keep asking,

and because I have no way of answering,

I’m beginning to ask myself

am I okay?

Am I okay?


Well, no.

I’ve been sad most days.

Sometimes I lie awake at night dreading ever leaving my bed,

wishing I could suspend time and just stay beneath my force field of sheets,

until I’m ready to face tomorrow.

I don’t feel beautiful or smart anymore,

or proud of what I’ve achieved.

I was happiest when I was moving,

always on to the next adventure,

always searching for something new,

now, I feel trapped.

Failed out, broke, after two years of University,

I spend my days working for a huge company

that only cares about me when I do something wrong.

I had such dreams of getting a PhD

and writing enough poems to make my own anthology.

I had such dreams of traveling the world,

and never staying in one place too long.

But now, I don’t know what I want,

and I don’t know if those dreams even belong to me anymore,

because that was who I used to be,

and I am ever changing.


So maybe I’m sad because I’m not in school,

but the truth is, when I was there,

I was miserable,

and wanted to leave so desperately

that I comtemplated jumping off a bridge

to escape finals.

So maybe it’s my place of work,

my biggest fear has always been being stuck in a dead end job

and never getting recognized for my writing,

but I don’t hate my job that much,

yes there are times when it really sucks

but I know I won’t spend the rest of my days there,

I know I am free to work elsewhere,

I know.


So maybe it’s the people.

Being burnt out by all the fake faces,

the smiles, the laughter,

I wear my happiness on my sleeve,

and store my sorrow in my heart.

I never want anyone to believe I’m unhappy.

Because I have nothing to be unhappy about.

I have a home and a wife and a kitten,

and we make enough money for a comfortable living,

and we are planning our wedding at the end of the month,

so shouldn’t I be so full of excitement

there is no room for sadness.


My Dad’s mom killed herself when he was five,

and he’s struggled with depression his whole life.

From the moment I was old enough to know what death was,

I started planning my own suicide.

I was always worried I was too fragile, too unimportant for my time,

and thought the world would be better if I wasn’t alive.

I still have those feelings, sometimes,

but I’m always able to push them way

with a little reasoning and positive thinking.

And maybe this is all just a mental state,

maybe I’m letting the negative get me down,

but I don’t want to be prescribe with another bottle of pills

before I’m able to honestly say

“I’m not okay.”


I just don’t know.


I don’t know what is wrong with me

and maybe I’m just letting people get to me

or maybe I’m depressed and always will be

but I don’t know.

And not knowing or being able to express my feelings

as someone who is very sensitive and in touch with my own body

makes me feel like an alien beneath my skin.

Can somebody please tell me who I am?

Does anybody know who I am?


All I want to do is write,

and slowly make the world a better place with my words.

All I want to do is make people smile,

but these days my face is too tired

to even smile back.

And I just want to be okay.

I want to be the happy go lucky carefree girl

everyone perceives me to be.

And I want to be me, at the same time, be authentic to who I am

and what I need,

but that’s the thing,

I just don’t know.

And with the overwhelming amount of people asking me

“Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?”


I guess the answer is no.


So I write poetry, and weep,

in the solace of my soul,

and hope,

that is too

will pass.

The End

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