Stood in front of my mirror and thought I’d live in my truth, not a pretty site but I discovered that sometimes the little lies I tell myself carry me through.
So I’ve had the worst writers block, I’ve only managed to write the first stanza of a piece called fear. My perfectionism has never allowed me to share a raw piece with anybody, it’s not even cohesive at all. Throughout my blogging journey I’ve come to learn that you’ve got to keep writing. This is a new form of vulnerability for me. It is with in itself terrifying, but nonetheless here is the raw, imperfect first stanza of a piece I may never finish or never polish.