Sierra Mazzucca's Poetry site

Pressure, is a force applied.

I feel it getting heavier, with every blink of an eye.

I make it out of one nightmare, only to still not feel alive.

Sleep has been causing chaos, burning down sets, built in that fantastical part of my mind.

It’s the only place where things come true.

There is this stage, lets call it life.

Where I am to perform, until its off with the lights.

Just to exit stage left.

Who knows what’s on the other side.

As the curtains close.

I resume my tolerable existence.

What purpose was I?

In this flesh bag of whys.

How is it still so hard to role play this little life?

Nothing spectacular ever happens to me, I cry.

They are pretty basic lines, as I am not the main character in this play of mine.

Just a stand-in, with no significance to the cast I have assigned.

I hold space, for the deserving.

But I refuse to throw myself a fucking line.

I feel like I am slowly fading.

Soon none of me will be left to find.

The pressure of living seems pointless to me.

So much so, sometimes I still just want to delete the story entirely.

Honestly.

I don’t feel like audience would miss me.

They wouldn’t even recognize my character is missing.

Feeling insignificant, knowing its just a part of living.

Second guessing WHO I am, is actually proof I’m healing.

Because I want to be admired by me.

I want to want my own autograph signed ,by yours truly.

I want to rewrite my story, I want to make a new script

Trash the old one.

No use for it.

The pressure will come and go forever, that is inevitable

But I created a new role, and she doesn’t feel the pressure to pop, or explode.

She waits for you to finish before she reads what she wrote.

She made her part the role lead.

No more standing in the shadows while others are seen.

She uses her own magic, to create the perfect scene.