Martytalks Daliy

Everyone But Me

I wear my cape invisible—

stitched together with silence and savior complexes.

I’m the fixer,

the shoulder,

the late-night voice that picks up at 3AM

when you call crying,

even when I’m drowning too.

I’ve patched up heartbreak with duct tape words,

stitched shattered self-esteem with borrowed prayers,

held hands through storms

I wasn’t strong enough to walk through myself.

I show up—

for everybody but me.

Because it’s easier to clean up your broken glass

than to admit I’ve been walking on mine for years.

Easier to pour light into your shadows

than to look my own in the eye and ask them why they linger.

I’m the therapist without a license,

the healer without healing,

the friend who always says,

“I got you,”

but never dares to whisper,

“I need help too.”

They say I’m selfless,

but what if I’m just avoiding?

Avoiding the wreckage inside this chest

that I keep dressing in new distractions—

your crisis, their pain,

anything but mine.

It’s not that I don’t want to be whole.

It’s that wholeness feels like a room with no doors,

like sitting still in a silence so loud

it reminds me of everything I’ve buried.

So I busy myself with your wounds,

your fears,

your battles.

Not because I’m stronger,

but because I’m scared.

Scared that if I stop saving everyone else,

I’ll have no excuse

but to look at the mirror and ask,

“Why won’t you save you?”

The truth?

I don’t know how.

I can map out your healing in three easy steps

but can’t take the first one for myself.

I can walk you to freedom

but tie my own ankles with shame and guilt.

I can say,

“You’re not broken,”

but my reflection still argues.

Is it love,

or is it avoidance?

Is it compassion,

or is it fear wrapped in a noble disguise?

Is it kindness,

or a clever way to disappear from myself

without ever leaving the room?

I’ve learned the art of fixing others

like it’s a spiritual calling.

But I’m starting to wonder

if my real assignment

isn’t outside of me—

but in the mess I keep ignoring.

Maybe the greatest love

is the kind you give to your own broken pieces.

Maybe the bravest healing

is the one you stop outsourcing.

Maybe I’m not failing others by taking care of me—

maybe I’m finally choosing to be honest.

So today,

I hang up my cape.

Not because I don’t love you,

but because I finally remember

that I’m worth saving too.

“Choose Who Chooses You”

I used to chase shadows,

people with smiles like mirages—

looked like love from a distance

but vanished when I got too close.

I gave my best to hands

that never held me back.

Poured my soul into empty cups

hoping they’d overflow

when they barely even dripped effort.

You ever bend over backwards

just to stand in someone’s good graces?

Ever dim your light

so theirs could shine uninterrupted?

I did that.

Until I realized…

God never made me a doormat.

He made me a door.

To newness.

To growth.

To peace.

And only the right people have the key.

I’m done auditioning

for roles I didn’t ask to play.

Done trying to earn a seat

at tables that never fed me truth.

I don’t want empty “I love you’s”

that come with conditions

and walk away at the first sign

of my realness.

Choose the ones

who choose you back—

not just when it’s easy,

not just when you’re smiling

and nothing’s cracked.

But the ones who stay

when your voice trembles,

your past leaks through your pores,

and your scars sing louder than your dreams.

Pick the ones who

don’t just clap for you

when you’re winning,

but coach you

when you’re crawling.

The ones who tell you,

“You can be better.”

Not because you aren’t enough,

but because they see the fire

behind your tired eyes.

They don’t throw water on your flame—

they fan it.

Choose people

who pray for you

in rooms you’re not in.

Who speak your name

like it’s sacred,

not a rumor.

Who call you out with love,

not shade.

Who hold you accountable

but never hold you hostage

to your past self.

We all need that tribe—

the ones who tell you

“Rest, but don’t quit.”

“Cry, but don’t break.”

“Grow, even when it’s slow.”

Those who remind you

that healing isn’t linear,

but it’s worth every step.

So now,

I water who waters me.

I pour where I’m poured into.

I build with those

who hand me bricks,

not burdens.

I no longer beg to belong.

I belong to myself,

and that’s enough.

Because when you start

choosing people

who choose you,

you stop apologizing

for outgrowing those

who never saw your value

in the first place.

So choose the encouragers.

The uplifters.

The soul-expanders.

The mirror-holders

who show you your reflection

and still stay—

not to judge,

but to journey.

Because love—real love—

doesn’t shrink you.

It stretches you

into someone

you were always meant to be.

Choose wisely.

Your circle is sacred.

Let it only include

those who light you up,

not burn you out.

Choose people

who make you

a better person…

and never let go of the ones

who already do.

(Pause)

So to the ones who stayed…

who saw the mess and chose the masterpiece—

Thank you.

And to the ones I had to let go…

I bless you,

but I choose better now.

I choose me.

I choose truth.

I choose who chooses me.

Out of My League

(A Spoken Word Poem)

I got a crush like gravity —

pulling me toward someone I’ll never touch,

like the moon whispering sweet nothings

to the waves,

knowing they’ll never hold her.

You’re…

the type of beautiful that poems can’t hold,

the kind of smile that architects should study,

the kind of laugh that echoes in ribcages

like a home I ain’t got the keys to.

You walk like the world owes you sunlight,

and it repays you in golden hours.

And me?

I’m just a shadow trying not to trip

on the silence between your footsteps.

I see you.

And not just in the “I noticed your outfit” way.

No —

I see the way you touch conversations gently,

like they might break.

How your eyes soften when someone’s nervous.

How you say people’s names like a prayer.

Like they matter.

Like I matter.

But I don’t think you see me,

not really.

I’m background noise in the playlist of your day,

a bench you passed on the way to better views.

You talk about “your type”

and it’s never mine.

I ain’t tall enough, calm enough,

cool enough,

rich enough,

light enough,

loud enough.

You like poetry —

but not the kind that spills nervous ink

on the margins of notebooks

trying to spell your name without shaking.

I get it.

You want someone who walks into rooms

like they own oxygen,

not someone who hesitates

before they breathe near you.

But still,

I catch myself checking my phone

hoping you liked that post.

I rehearse hellos like monologues.

I write full symphonies in my head

and delete the chorus before you ever hear it.

I told myself,

“I just admire them.”

Then I told myself,

“It’s just a phase.”

Then I told myself,

“You’re over it.”

But lies sound a lot like lullabies

when you sing them long enough.

What would I even say to you?

“Hi, I like your laugh and the way your eyebrows move

when you’re trying not to laugh harder.”

“Hi, I memorized your favorite songs

just to imagine what it’s like

to dance in your thoughts.”

“Hi, I wish I could be the reason

you forget your phone for a while.”

But the truth is…

I think you’d laugh.

Not mean. Not cruel.

Just confused.

Like, “Wait — you?”

And I’d say,

“Yeah… I know.”

I know I’m not in your lane.

Not in your story arc.

Not in your plot twist.

I’m the background extra

who catches feelings in the middle of a monologue

that was never mine.

But here’s what I’ll say:

You taught me something without trying.

That hearts can still skip

even when the finish line is fantasy.

That sometimes,

the ache is worth it.

The wanting makes you human.

And that love — even unreturned —

still glows.

So I’ll keep rooting for you

from the sidelines of my own daydream.

Because even if you never look my way,

at least I know what it feels like

to see someone

and smile

and mean it.

“Still Rising (The Designer’s Confession)”

🎤

I am…

Designer by day,

Poet by heart,

Sketching dreams on deadlines

And bleeding truth into bars after dark.

I don’t just clock in —

I create in color

While the grayscale of my mind

Tries to pull me under.

But nah, I ain’t drowning —

I’ve learned to swim through the noise,

To sculpt the pain,

To paint with the broken pieces

And make beauty from the strain.

See—

I’m a first-gen soul,

Walking on sidewalks poured

By hands that never got to walk them.

I carry their hope in my stride

And their struggle in my spine.

I got scars you’ll never see,

But they taught me how to shine.

Anxiety?

We’ve danced.

Depression?

We’ve slow-dragged through sleepless nights.

PTSD whispered war songs

In moments that should’ve been quiet.

And bipolar?

He’s that old friend with mood swings

Who shows up uninvited.

But still, I rise.

Not because I’m unshaken —

But because I keep moving.

Still here. Still choosing.

Still bruised, but not losing.

I don’t numb no more —

I bake.

Pound cake, sweet like the prayers of my grandmother,

Soft like the hug I needed last week

But didn’t know how to ask for.

I write now —

Pain into poetry,

Mood swings into metaphors,

Bad days into blog posts

So deep they hit like gospel.

Movies, music, writing —

They ain’t escapes.

They’re life support.

Each song, a breath.

Each film, a mirror.

Each poem, a resurrection.

And my dog?

Yeah, he don’t judge when I fall apart.

He just lays by my side like,

“Bro, fall if you need to — I’m still here.”

That’s love.

No conditions.

No masks.

Just presence.

That’s something most people can’t give.

My heart?

She’s been cracked open and patched up with grace.

She forgives before she understands.

She feels too much sometimes,

But I’d rather bleed than be numb.

And church?

It ain’t tradition —

It’s therapy with hallelujahs.

It’s where I sit in the back row

And let God hold the parts of me

That I keep too fragile to share.

And when my voice shakes?

I speak anyway.

Because silence is heavy,

And I’ve carried enough weight.

I am rebuilding —

Not from rubble,

But from remembrance.

Every piece of me

Is a page in a book

I’m still learning to love.

Still healing.

Still here.

Still rising —

Not like smoke,

But like a phoenix

With ink on its feathers

And fire in its soul.

So if you ask me who I am?

I’m not a survivor.

I’m a creator.

A warrior with words.

A baker of comfort.

A son of struggle.

A testimony in motion.

I’m not perfect,

But I am present.

And that’s enough for today.

That’s enough to say —

I’m still rising.

Even on the days

I forget how to fly

“How Do You Escape?”: The Good, the Bad, and the Healing in Our Coping Mechanisms

We all want to feel good. To feel safe. To feel something other than pain, emptiness, anxiety, or exhaustion. And for many of us, that means we need a way to escape—even if just for a moment.

Some people retreat into nature. Some into Netflix. Others into a bottle, a body, or a perfectly curated lie.

I’ve done all of it.

There was a time in my life when my idea of escape was rooted in desperation—not healing. I didn’t want to deal with my thoughts, my shame, my history, or the ache that followed me from morning to night. So I reached for what felt good in the moment, not realizing I was creating a prison of habits that would eventually numb me more than help me.

The Unhealthy Escapes

Let’s talk about those first—the things we turn to when we just want to disappear or not feel for a little while.

1. Drugs and Alcohol

For a time, I used substances to quiet the storm in my mind. Whether it was to forget something traumatic, deal with loneliness, or just feel “normal,” drugs and alcohol were a kind of false peace. They gave me the illusion of control—until I realized I was completely out of control. They didn’t solve anything. They masked the problem while creating a dozen new ones: broken relationships, blackouts, addiction, shame, and emotional disconnection.

2. Sex (as Escape)

Let’s be honest—sex can feel like a release, and when it’s connected to love and trust, it can be beautiful. But for me, it became a way to fill the void I didn’t know how to name. I wasn’t looking for intimacy; I was looking for distraction, validation, and the fleeting feeling of being wanted. I used people and allowed myself to be used. Afterward, I often felt even lonelier than before. That kind of escape leaves you empty—every time.

The Problem With Escaping the Wrong Way

The truth is, unhealthy escapes aren’t real healing—they’re avoidance. They offer relief, but not restoration. The pain waits for you. The anxiety doesn’t leave. The trauma remains unaddressed. And over time, the cost gets higher—emotionally, physically, spiritually, and relationally.

Worse still, unhealthy escapes can become addictions. They change how your brain processes pleasure, pain, and connection. What starts as “just this once” or “I need a break” becomes “I can’t make it through the day without this.” And that’s a terrifying place to be.

The Shift: Learning to Escape With Intention

Over time—through healing, support, faith, and falling flat on my face more times than I’d like to admit—I started discovering healthier ways to escape. Not to avoid pain, but to move through it with grace and awareness. I still need breaks. I still have rough days. But now, I turn to outlets that feed my soul, not steal from it.

1. Writing

Writing has become one of my biggest lifelines. It’s not always pretty. Sometimes it’s raw, disorganized, even angry. But it’s real. When I write, I get to tell the truth—to myself, to God, and sometimes to the people who read what I share. Writing helps me process what I feel instead of stuffing it down. It turns the chaos in my head into something I can see and name. That alone is powerful.

2. Baking

Baking might seem simple, but it brings me peace in ways I never expected. It’s meditative. I follow a recipe. I focus on measuring and mixing. I create something sweet and nourishing. In a world where things feel out of control, baking gives me a tiny corner of peace and accomplishment. Plus, sharing what I bake is a quiet way to show love.

3. Movies and TV Shows

Sometimes, I still need to “get away”—but now I do it in healthier ways. Watching a well-written movie or TV show lets me step into someone else’s story for a while. I laugh. I cry. I reflect. Good storytelling doesn’t numb me—it moves me. It reminds me of the human condition, the beauty in struggle, and the fact that none of us are alone.

4. (Yes, Sometimes) Sex

Let’s be real—I still struggle. I’m not perfect. There are still moments when I fall into old patterns, especially with sex. But I’m learning to ask myself why. Why am I reaching for this? Is it connection or is it comfort? Is it out of love or out of loneliness? I don’t beat myself up, but I try to be honest. Healing is not linear, and grace is necessary.

The Power of Self-Awareness

The difference between healthy and unhealthy escape is often your intention. Are you using the escape to avoid your life, or to recharge so you can engage with your life better?

That question has changed everything for me.

Escape isn’t the enemy. In fact, we all need rest, breaks, and joy. But we have to pay attention to how we’re doing it. Are you escaping in a way that brings you closer to yourself, to God, and to others—or are you disappearing into something that numbs you to all of it?

So, How Do YOU Escape?

I’m not here to judge anyone’s journey. I’m still on mine. But I’ve learned this: how you escape will shape your emotional health, your relationships, your peace of mind, and even your identity.

If you’re in a season where your escapes are hurting you more than helping you, I get it. I’ve been there. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re not too far gone. You’re not weak for wanting relief—you just might need a better path to it.

And if you’re discovering healthy ways to cope, celebrate that. Build on it. Share it. You never know who might need to hear that there is another way to live. One with beauty, balance, and boundaries.

You don’t have to disappear to survive. You’re allowed to rest, to feel, to heal—and yes, even to escape sometimes. Just choose the path that leads you back home to yourself, not further away.

Want to share your story? What helps you escape in a healthy way? What habits are you trying to leave behind? Let’s talk about it. Healing loves company.

When Everything Is Everything: Living with Anxiety, Depression, PTSD, and Bipolar Disorder

There’s no easy way to start a post like this, so I’m just going to say it straight: living with multiple mental health conditions is a lot. It’s more than a full-time job, more than a weight—it’s an entire storm system, and I live inside of it every single day.

Last night was one of the worst ones I’ve had in a long time. Anxiety didn’t just visit—it decided to unpack, rearrange the furniture in my brain, and stay for the night. I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced, my body ached, and all of it became too much. And it wasn’t just mental. This was the first time I can honestly say I got sick from anxiety. My body shut down. I felt physically drained, emotionally raw, and spiritually scattered.

And here’s the thing: when you live with bipolar disorder, PTSD, anxiety, and depression, no two days are ever the same. No two hours, even. What worked for you yesterday might not help today. One moment you’re okay, the next you’re swallowed by sadness or rage or fear and can’t even explain why. It’s like living inside a maze where the walls keep shifting—and all you have is a compass that only half-works on good days.

The weather doesn’t help either.

That might sound silly to someone who hasn’t been through it, but people who take psychiatric medication know: the weather can throw everything off. One minute it’s hot, then suddenly it rains, and now your body feels like it’s not even yours anymore. You feel tired, your stomach might act up, your mood spirals—and nobody around you understands how something as simple as a cloudy day can make you feel like you’re drowning in wet cement.

And the meds. Oh, the meds.

They help in their own way, sure, but they also come with side effects—drowsiness, headaches, dizziness, weight changes, emotional numbness. You take them because you have to, but they change you. They dull the highs and sometimes drag out the lows. And yet, even with them, you’re still dealing with the mood swings, the panic, the trauma flashbacks, and the emotional rollercoaster.

Last night, everything crashed at once.

I was mad. I was sad. I was annoyed. I was overwhelmed. I wanted to scream, cry, sleep, run, and disappear all at the same time—but instead, I just said, “I’m fine.” Because sometimes it’s easier to lie than to try and explain something you don’t even understand yourself.

I hate how hard it is to express myself in the moment. I can’t seem to find the words when everything is falling apart. That’s why I write. That’s why I’m here, blogging, typing out what I couldn’t say last night. Because this is the only space where I feel like I can be completely honest—where I can admit I’m not okay, that I’m struggling, that I’m scared, and that I don’t know what I’m doing.

But today… today I tried.

I’m with someone from my support team, and I’m trying to stay present. I’m trying not to ruminate, not to let my mind drag me back into the past or throw me into an imaginary future filled with fear. I’m trying to breathe. I’m trying to remind myself that right now is all I have.

It’s not perfect. I’m still tired. I’m still shaken from last night. I still feel like I’m walking on emotional eggshells. But I showed up. I stayed. I reached out. I didn’t isolate—at least not completely. And even though the day is almost over, and I’m scared of what tonight might bring, I have a little hope tucked away in the corner of my mind.

I hope I sleep.

I hope I wake up tomorrow feeling a little more balanced.

I hope I remember that it’s okay to not be okay—and that being vulnerable isn’t weakness, it’s realness.

If you’re reading this and you relate, just know: you’re not alone. This isn’t something we chose, but it’s something we live with. And surviving each day, especially the hard ones, is a form of bravery that the world doesn’t always recognize. But I see you. I hear you. And I’m right here in the storm with you.

Thanks for listening.

Sometimes that’s all we need—to be heard.

And maybe, just maybe, tonight will be different.

Maybe we’ll both find a little peace.

Maybe sleep will come like a quiet friend.

Maybe tomorrow will be a little lighter.

Here’s hoping.

While the World Sleeps

While the world sleeps,

I stay awake.

Not because I want to.

Not because there’s something grand to do in the dark.

But because silence won’t hush the voices,

and time won’t rewind the clock.

Streetlights flicker like nervous thoughts.

Even the moon seems tired,

but here I am—wired.

Heart pacing laps in a room that hasn’t changed,

while my mind runs miles in memories

I can’t rearrange.

See, it’s quiet outside,

but inside it’s a riot.

A war zone of what-ifs and I-wish-I-hads.

A battlefield where dreams fight doubt

and peace keeps losing ground.

I think about the bills,

the broken routines,

the promises I made to myself

in New Year mirrors and morning screens.

I think about the job I lost.

The friend who ghosted.

The love that almost bloomed

but withered before spring got close.

And I ask myself—

How did I get so far off track

with so much map in my hands?

Why do I keep building ladders

only to find they lean on the wrong plans?

I want more.

I want better.

I want to breathe without wondering

if the air is borrowed.

I want to speak without second-guessing

every syllable my heart has swallowed.

But something—

something—keeps getting in the way.

Not a wall I can climb,

not a person I can name.

It’s a shadow made of delay,

an echo of yesterday,

a fear in disguise

that knows how to play me like a song

I never wanted on replay.

And still…

I sit here.

With nothing but my heartbeat

ticking like a metronome in the dark.

Trying to write rhythm

into a life that’s lost its spark.

Because being awake

when the rest of the world is dreaming

feels like punishment some nights,

but other nights—it feels like prayer.

A confession with no altar.

A cry with no name.

Just a man

and a mind

and a silence that won’t play fair.

But maybe…

just maybe,

this is the soil where hope grows best.

In midnight hours and unrest.

Maybe the clutter in my head

is just the noise before the breakthrough.

Maybe the tracks I keep derailing from

are just detours to something truer,

something newer,

something stronger

than the lie I’ve been rehearsing

about not being enough.

So I breathe.

I pace.

I cry if I need to.

I shout into pillows that don’t talk back.

But I stay.

Awake, aware,

not giving up though everything cracks.

Because maybe—just maybe—

the race isn’t to the swift,

but to the stubborn.

To the ones who refuse to quit running,

even if it’s just in their mind at 3:14 AM,

with the moon as their only witness

and their shadow as their only friend.

So while the world sleeps,

I write my resurrection.

One thought at a time.

One tear.

One prayer.

One stubborn breath

against the silence

that dares me

to disappear.

Let Me Be Open

Yo…

Can I talk to you for a minute?

Not the polished version of me —

Not the highlight reel,

Not the “I’m good, just tired” lie I keep in my pocket

Like loose change I keep spending on surface conversations.

I mean the real me.

The me that hesitates before pressing “send.”

The me that drafts texts

And deletes them

Because maybe I said too much…

Or maybe I didn’t say enough.

See —

Vulnerability

Sounds like a big word,

But really, it’s just the quiet bravery

Of saying, “Here’s who I am… will you stay?”

It’s cracking the door to your soul

When your hands are still shaking on the knob.

I used to think that letting people in

Was an invitation for disappointment.

A trapdoor to betrayal.

A chance to give someone my truth

Only for them to weaponize it later.

So I built walls.

Tall ones.

Thick ones.

Strong enough to keep hurt out

But also strong enough to keep love out too.

I didn’t even realize how lonely it got.

I thought I was safe.

But safety ain’t the same as freedom.

And silence ain’t the same as peace.

Then one day —

Someone knocked.

Didn’t barge in.

Didn’t pry.

Just stood there and said,

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

And I almost didn’t believe them.

But something in me whispered:

What if… just this once… you try?

So I cracked open a window,

Let some air in.

Spoke a little softer.

Cried without apologizing.

Laughed without hiding it.

Admitted I was struggling —

Not as a confession,

But as a connection.

And you know what happened?

Nobody ran.

Nobody recoiled.

The world didn’t stop spinning.

My friends didn’t call me “too much.”

My people leaned in closer.

And I learned:

Letting people in doesn’t mean losing control.

It means gaining a tribe.

A circle.

A few people who don’t flinch when you’re not okay.

So here I am —

Still learning,

Still healing,

Still peeling off layers of “I’m fine”

Like old stickers on a lunchbox.

And if you’re anything like me,

I want you to know:

You don’t have to be loud to be heard.

You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.

You don’t have to be fearless to be strong.

You just have to try.

Open your mouth.

Open your hands.

Open your heart — slowly, if you must.

But open it.

Because real connection?

It’s on the other side of the risk.

And yeah, it’s scary.

But it’s also sacred.

So this is me —

Not polished.

Not scripted.

Just honest.

Saying:

Let people in.

Let yourself be seen.

You’re not a burden.

You’re a blessing

Still unfolding.

And we’re waiting to know the real you.

So take your time.

But don’t hide forever.

We need your story.

We need your light.

We need your voice.

So let it speak.

Today Was a Good Day: A Reflection on Growth, Grace, and Showing Up

Today was one of those rare days where everything feels aligned — not because it was perfect, but because it was real. There were laughs, deep thoughts, sun, food, and moments that cracked my heart open just enough to let some light in. It started off simple enough — church in the morning, which always helps to ground me, even when I don’t realize I need grounding. There’s something about being in that space — even if my mind is drifting — that still does something to my soul. Like God’s voice is quiet, but present, reminding me: Hey, I’m still here.

After service, I spent the rest of the day surrounded by people I care about — my sister, some friends, and my mom. We threw a little cookout and pool party, and the vibe was everything: ribs sizzling, laughter echoing off the water, and the sun deciding to be generous for once. There was this peace in the air, the kind you don’t always recognize until it’s gone.

In the middle of all that joy, I had a moment with a friend. A real one. We talked — like really talked. And that’s when something hit me: we’re getting close to the anniversary of my suicide attempt. I hadn’t realized how close until I glanced in the mirror and saw the note I once left — a reminder of a darker time, a version of me that almost didn’t make it. That note is still there. I haven’t taken it down. Part of me doesn’t want to — not because I want to stay in that place, but because it reminds me how far I’ve come.

Seeing that note opened up a flood of thoughts I hadn’t prepared for. I kept asking myself: Why do people show up for me? I’ve always been more comfortable on the sidelines, blending into the background, never wanting to be too seen. I like the shadows — not in a creepy way — but in a “let me process things in peace” kind of way. I find it hard to open up, not because I don’t want to be known, but because I’m afraid. Afraid that if I say the wrong thing or share too much, it’ll be used against me. That’s a fear I haven’t quite shaken yet.

But still… people show up. My friend showed up today. My family showed up today. And it made me realize: maybe I’m worth showing up for, even if I don’t fully understand why. Maybe being seen isn’t something to run from — maybe it’s something to lean into, little by little.

After all the deep conversations and emotional whirlwinds, something beautifully random happened: I played Fortnite for the first time. Now, let me be real — I was terrible. Like, “don’t even hand me the controller” terrible. But it was fun. I laughed at myself. I got frustrated. I got excited. And most importantly, I tried.

That moment — silly as it sounds — made me think. Life doesn’t require perfection. It just requires effort. You don’t have to be the best at everything. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Sometimes, just pressing “start” is enough. Sometimes, just being willing to play — even if you suck — is a form of victory.

So yeah… today was a good day.

Not because everything was flawless. But because I showed up.

Because others showed up for me.

Because I was reminded that I’m still here.

And maybe that’s more than enough.

My Body Won’t Let Me Die

Spoken Word by Marty

I’ve been lying in bed,

with the weight of the world pressing full against my chest—

not like Atlas carrying the globe,

more like being the pavement beneath it.

Cracked,

silent,

invisible until someone trips over me.

All I want to do is vanish,

fade like fog in morning heat.

Not with fireworks,

not with goodbyes—

just… disappear.

Leave the ache where it lies

and stop pretending my heart beats because it wants to.

Because it doesn’t.

Not really.

Not when the nights stretch longer than my reasons to stay.

Not when “I’m fine” is a foreign language I speak fluently but never believe.

Not when the mirror only reflects a ghost in rehearsal—

a face rehearsing smiles like lines in a play no one watches.

All I want is to die.

And that’s not poetry.

It’s not metaphor.

It’s not a craving for attention or applause.

It’s a whisper that repeats itself louder than any scream I’ve ever swallowed.

But here’s the catch:

my body…

keeps fighting.

Keeps breathing.

Like lungs are traitors

pumping hope I never asked for.

Like my pulse is a protest

against the silence I keep praying for.

I skip meals like skipping steps on a crumbling staircase.

I don’t answer texts.

I ghost myself.

I write “help” in invisible ink and wait for someone to decode it.

But my skin won’t open,

my wrists stay closed,

my soul stays tethered

to this flesh I didn’t ask for.

Isn’t that wild?

That I can feel so hollow

and still be full of life?

Still blinking.

Still…

blinking.

Some days, I think that’s divine cruelty.

Some days, maybe it’s grace.

That even when my mind caves in,

my heart builds scaffolding.

Even when my spirit taps out,

my bones say, “We’re not done.”

Even when I want out,

my breath leans in and says, “Try again.”

See, I haven’t written a suicide note—

but I’ve written sad songs and left the chorus blank.

I’ve walked to the edge,

and the wind whispered, “You’re still needed.”

Not in big, world-saving ways.

Not as a hero,

not as a legend.

But maybe just as me—

raw, trembling, unfinished.

Because maybe

my body knows something I don’t.

Maybe survival isn’t cowardice.

Maybe it’s defiance.

Maybe it’s my blood screaming, “You’re more than your darkness.”

Maybe the fight to live

isn’t about strength,

but stubbornness.

A refusal to let pain have the final word.

So yeah—

All I want is to die some days.

But every inhale

is a poem my body writes

without asking me for permission.

Every heartbeat is a drumbeat of resistance.

Every morning I open my eyes is a quiet revolution.

And maybe—

just maybe—

that means I still have something to give.

A breath.

A verse.

A step forward.

Even if I don’t want to.

Even if I don’t know how.

I’m here.

Still blinking.

Still trembling.

Still trying.

Still…

alive.