I've never been one for talking.
My words have always been used sparingly
As a child, they were minimal and meaningful
But my years progressed
I lost confidence
So they became less and less.
I started to believe
That my opinion was worthless
And I could never formulate a perfect method
In which to express my emotions to others
So I began to fall into myself.
As depression hit like a crashing wave
And anxiety was the flood that followed
I looked for ways to cope.
I would attack myself with anything sharp
Sending me to the hospital was it's only effect.
An eight year battle with an eating disorder
Seldom reaped any benefits.
But through it all,
I began recording my experiences.
Not ******
But with a pen in my hand
And a cigarette hard-pressed between my lips.
I would write anywhere I could
In classes
In my bedroom
Sometimes, surrounded by nature
And it was so unexpectedly freeing.
It was as though
My words finally made sense
And flowed seamlessly, one into the next
I didn't stammer or hesitate when I wrote.
I felt esteemed and witty and self-assured
I finally had a space where I was free of judgement.
All in all,
Writing is a gift
To express thoughts and say exactly what you mean
Is beautiful.
For me,
Writing is a means of escape
Of expression
Of art.
Writing is really
The way I communicate with the world around me.

Would you mind terribly
Would you think me so rude
If I asked you to save me today
Help me throw some baggage away

Would I lose my luster
Would you think me incredulous
If I broke down and cried
Told you of the pain inside

Would it be too much to know
Would it bother you to hear
About all of my damaged pieces
And paranoid fears

Would it ruin your day
Would it chase you away
To discover I’m riddled with
Heart scars and faded stars

Would you find me odd
Would you run away
If you knew I wanted
You to save me today

Don't wake me
please
I want my own world
not your reality
Call me an escapist
Call me a coward
but quite frankly I'm sick of earth
like atlas when he held the burden of the sky
I can't stop myself from wondering why
the world is so cold
to the young and to the old
the young have to grow up so much faster
to survive and even then they won't have a chance to really thrive
And the old are out in the bitter cold be it from past injustices karma or just having nowhere to go

So when the lights have gone off
and the world has shut down
I hope a crying falcon can whisper my words
my dreams, on its crying breath
that I lived with honor and left my heart inside my work
And let my words and thoughts find a home with someone alone that reads and my ink stains give them what they need

Do you remember everything we said?
You promised you wouldn't forget
Now you barely know my name
I wish I could forget just as easily

But your words have been engraved in me
I was like a piece of wood
In which you carefully carved
Each and every letter

From your mouth came out music
From your hands came out art
I was your master piece for a while
But now I just wish I could back to a white canvas