Tap, tap, tap.

A hundred words here. A hundred more there on a new subject.

Write. Delete. Write some more. Delete some more. Stare off and start over. Abruptly stop and shake head before moving finger over the cursed ‘delete’ button.

A thousand words on a thousand subjects. Written and deleted.

I bring my fingers down like jackhammers, in a desperate attempt to break through the dreaded block. The fervor of typing. TAP, TAP, TAP. The typing does not hold rhythm. It no longer soothes. It has become nervous, on edge. Exasperated.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Delete. 

There is so much yearning to be said. It all flies out furiously, before fizzling disappointingly. I am the one on edge. I am the one typing.

I am the one screaming for my voice to find itself. For the words to help me grow strong. Yet, I do not find strength, as I become hoarse from babbled nonsense.

“Out of clutter, find simplicity. Out of discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty, find opportunity.” -Albert Einstein.

I push thoughts from my mind, trying to find the simplicity.

Tap, tap, tap. 

I have grabbed my headphones, blasting rhythms and song into my brain in an attempt to find my balance. My melody. The tapping has done nothing to soothe me. I take matters into my own hands and borrow the beat from other artists.

I type, searching the page for my self. On days like today, that have strung together into weeks, I need to coax the words out.

I never write about writing. It seems, at the very least, to be a topic no one other than maybe myself would be interested in.

Tap, tap, tap. 

To write about writing is a novel concept.

Tap, tap, tap. 

People want to read about first loves and pain.

People break their necks trying to watch a car crash. 

If ever given the opportunity, stare at the inside of my wrists. Ugly blotches of cigarette burns line them. They are white, distorted pieces of flesh burned away in ritualistic acts of stupidity from what seems like a lifetime ago.

I have learned to embrace the past and the wounds still carried from it. The cigarette scars will never go away and neither will the moments of insanity that drove me to creating them.

Tap, tap, tap. 

I search my truths for wisdom. I want to write free and bleed. I want to move with the words, as if they are the tide; pulling me out to sea. I never knew writing. I never knew the voice inside me needed awakening. Oh, but I burned my skin on late nights in front of horrified friends who broke their necks trying to find a good view.

I never knew you didn’t need to drink a whole bottle of whiskey to finally feel. I didn’t know there were ways to work through the thoughts we all sometimes feel.

Tap, tap, tap. 

There begins to be a soothing nature to the types. The tips of my fingers glancing off keyboard. Blow by blow, I tap away and find my comfort. Even when I have to sit there and coax, pleading with myself to write something, anything- eventually they find their way.

It is a rust they are shaking away. A rust built on too many days of not being free.

Tap, tap, tap. 

I don’t know the grace period needed in between toxic acts and forgiveness.

I don’t know if I deserve to forgive myself or if I deserve the forgiveness of others.

I know I didn’t die. I survived myself. I survived self inflicted pain and the psychosis of days awake strung out on pills.

I know I made it through the shakes and the vomiting and haven’t been back to where the shadows are sinister.

Tap, tap, tap. 

I move with into a lulled state. The words begin to flow easier. Sentences taking less time to form, as my brain begins to catch up with the excitement of my digits.

There was a time I would covet a bag of blow the way I covet my laptop. It was and always will be a lot easier to cut a line than write prose.

Yet, I actively choose everyday to find myself on the page. Because I lost myself in lines and drank myself numb too many times to not spend the rest of my life trying to feel alive.

You see, the flow is coming easier now. Endorphins release as I find myself in the words.

As I find myself home.

Tap, tap, tap. 

“Out of clutter, find simplicity. Out of discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty, find opportunity.” -Albert Einstein.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Publish. 

 

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Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.

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