and so we write.
we write words filled with sadness;
words that flow from our pens like trails of salty tears
from beneath closed eyelids.
we write words bursting with joy;
words that appear on the page
in brilliant cascades of blue ink.
words that speak of love.
words that speak of loneliness.
words that speak of unfathomable bliss
and unimaginable pain.
words that no one wants to hear.
words that we wish would be heard.
onto clean sheets of paper,
we release the words that have scarred us -
words that have cut their way
through layers of skin and muscle and bone
and burrowed deep into our being.
we transcribe our innermost thoughts.
we describe our innermost desires.
we inscribe our stories onto countless pages
declaring,
'i may not be much,
but, i am here.'
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
and so we write.
we write words filled with sadness;
words that flow from our pens like trails of salty tears
from beneath closed eyelids.
we write words bursting with joy;
words that appear on the page
in brilliant cascades of blue ink.
words that speak of love.
words that speak of loneliness.
words that speak of unfathomable bliss
and unimaginable pain.
words that no one wants to hear.
words that we wish would be heard.
onto clean sheets of paper,
we release the words that have scarred us -
words that have cut their way
through layers of skin and muscle and bone
and burrowed deep into our being.
we transcribe our innermost thoughts.
we describe our innermost desires.
we inscribe our stories onto countless pages
declaring,
'i may not be much,
but, i am here.'
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