"I tell ya what Sam, I think you're plenty inspirational when you're not trying to be..." The past few weeks I've struggled to share a poem I wrote. Over and over again my hand hovered over the send button and I talked myself out of it. It's not pretty, or flattering in any light. And even though I don't completely believe it, there must be a little part of me that does. You know, the part that wrote it... But somehow I got it into my head that I was meant to inspire others with my words. But it feels like a lie, the need to present myself as well-adjusted all the time. I think about the nights I soaked my pillow and when I was all out of cry, I'd write. Nothing pretty, nothing that made you smile. Pain wrung me dry, but it also inspired me. I reckon you need this too, my personal broken. Unsure, uncertain, insecure, scared out of my mind, lonely...so very lonely, weak, disappointed. A hand to squeeze in the dark if I cou...
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