So many words

I'm full of so many words yet I let them build up inside me like a beautifully crafted brick wall with all the different colors of reds and each brick laid up there so perfect in all of its uniqueness, yet so lonely and unnoticed.  I build the wall but I don't ever reveal it, that's my problem. I spend all my time, my energy, my money and resources on making myself feel better that in the end all I am really doing is making myself feel bad.  I am here to reorganize my life, my priorities and my own well being. I won't feel bad for doing the things I need to do for myself and I won't take any shit off of anyone that doesn't value or appreciate me.  I'm going to start making myself really unavailable to a lot of people and I'll get some backlash but I am ready for it.  I am ready to watch them squirm around like they wish they had never questioned me.  I want to help but I'm done being taken advantage of.  I seem to find myself in these types of situations more than I would like to admit.  It's one of my toxic traits, help out others so much that you end up forgetting to help yourself.  A part of me has always hidden away my love for writing.  I think back on my childhood and one thing becomes very clear, I spent a lot of time writing.  I never really finished anything but I found so much joy in it.  Even in high school and college when it came up to having to write a paper, I wasn't even mad, actually quite relived because then I knew what I was doing, for the most part when it came to writing a paper.  Words just kind of flow out of me although they can be such a disorganized mess when they first pour out.  My mind works in all different directions, bouncing around like a pinball in a machine.  The words just brilliantly falling out of my mind and onto the paper, full of jumps and curve balls.  Crushed by the mere thoughts of inadequacy are the words that wanted to make the page or paper but sorely feel short.  If I wrote a book would you read it? Do you even read this blog?  Do you even care what I have to say? The intrusive thoughts might crush me and my dreams, but I will lay there crushed but only because the crushing is how the beauty even finds the paper or the words even accumulate in my mind.  Without being crushed I'm not sure the words would even form.  I used to hate the distress of my own mind, my own thoughts and emotions.  I realized though that in that distress is where I find my best creative work.  I'll never seek out despair, I'll never have too, it will always find its way to me.  Thats all the hope I need.