I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day


it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.

Letter to Istanbul

And there you were,
teaching me the strange
names and peculiar weave
of your nation’s frayed and
radiant tapestry;

Mélange of language
painting the scarlet story,
undertones of black
division and aurulent
complements of someday’s hope;

There you were,
your cigarette waving
dangerously close
to your wild bronze curls,
coffee spoon balanced
on the white rim
of your sugar-laced cup,

a frenzy of passion and
blood-stained philosophies,
the unmistakable anomaly
and unusual grace of your brow
a landmark on the grey
provincial landscape;

There you were,
yesterday or perhaps
I am mistaken-

and now in the dreadful
lapse of uncertain hours
I’m begging every God
I ever spurned
to cast their wing over
your young lion’s heart.

Send news soon
of where this night finds you.
The earth as I know it
could never withstand
the grievous absence of
your luminescent soul.


Words Of A Writer’s Block Survivor

I should listen to them
All the barking
To get minimum wage
And work towards a life
A simple life
To be like everyone else
Defining normal through others
We can’t go there
The understanding is too real
The lyrics–too loud
Competing for something different
Something true
We live for the passion
And fear of what nature brings
In the hands of the ocean
I lie in your fear
On land–I strive for truth
And meaning to these words
These words are my drive
My hunt for the greatest
The biggest kill
Before I die I will reach it
That last line I will write
It seems to never end today
These words so fragile
Feeling they could change something
Somewhere in time
An opposite being–perhaps
Other days it seems to stop
Like it will finally shut down–end
Like I have reached the last line
My fragile broken mind
That last ounce of soul I had left
The life I was meant to share
Then we drive on again
Listening to others cry
The words sinking in
About relations
And experiences we too have–suffered
As the road takes us–nowhere
In hopes to reach you
I write these words
Of purpose to some-one-thing where
Nonsense to others
These words will bring us home
And kill us when it’s time

Dear Reader,

Dear Reader,

It’s easy to forget that our minds are really the ones communicating here. I have these tools I am using to communicate with you. And you have your tools to perceive me. But what am I really saying? And why are you really listening? Is every word used to quench boredom an abuse of power? Is my mind distracted by all of the other brains trying to say unimportant things? How do we measure importance? By attention? Are all of these distractions going to add up to something bigger? These little details that everyone craves, are they hindering our ability to see larger pictures? You don’t know me, but I’m speaking to you now. It’s easy to forget everything we have is just a slow, large process to getting somebody else just a little bit closer to the answer. Or maybe we’re wasting too much time asking questions and not spending enough time wondering why we can even ask questions at all.

– holden lyric