what am i trying to say?

i read other people's writings. they are powerful. they are meaningful. they are full of life. and while i love the authors even more for what, and how, they write, my self esteem plummets.

i get tired of writers block. i try to write poetry, yet what comes out is not "beautiful". while i wish it were, i know that's not the issue. I would be content if only i could address the deep issues cursing through my soul. And yet, every time i try they allude me.
What comes out on paper, or in type, does not even graze the surface of the food issues, the beauty issues, and the identity shaking feminine-feminist issues that are convulsing inside of me.

The concepts running through my head are different. Durkheim, Mill, Yoder... all good men but they aren't talking to my soul. Maybe that's why my recent papers are hard work and incoherent. i am scattered.

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