I guess I could tell the story of how heartbreak saved my soul.
My hands can’t write.
Even as I see words scroll through my head as instances tattoo memories across my mind.
Just as the fish can’t walk, or the moon can’t shine the days sky.
Could go crazy not doing what makes me sane
I can’t take verbalizing my words into normalcy, taking away my artistic safe haven.
Stiff as a board, as I try to write on my board
Pen out of ink, mind out of sync
I think, how useful it would be to able to pen my words with my eyes
So the world could hear me with optic contact and silent conversation
Spitting up my soul as if I were stuffed.
It kind of hurt too.
But I guess the process of discovering oneself
is to experience different levels of pain.
Allowing yourself to feel things without the ability to hide behind what
what secretly feels great.
I was disillusioned with the reality of what I could expect
Spending time trying to protect something that was
impossible to secure.
The hurt hurt people, and my misery was accompanied by the flow of my pen.