I cant write like Shane.....
Or rhyme like Marshall....
My words are mine and I take full responsibility....
The advice you percieve is not what im trying to convey...
I am the village idiot in a society of Shakespeares...
Like I need a soapbox to visualise my plight...
The purest form of me is better left on paper....
Because when it bled into life... Nobody understood...
My laughter is captured in a joke I write meant for no none....
I never said it was funny only that nonsense is what makes me happy...
The moments of fear are in shaky etchings on prison walls.....
Where the only people who ever read it are destined for the hell I endured...
My sadness is the napkin after a holiday meal...
When I can only say I miss you using the medium of condiments....
A love note scars my heart and I now see beauty as a plateau...
The forgiveness letter is the sadness echoing from the valley....
Wish-lists are no longer lies about money or fame...
My bucket list is now a rewritten mess of hopes...
I cant write a story because they all turn into pop ups of memories I cant face....
Choose the adventure and Find waldos are the closest thing to my section...
Writing is now been the way I can send my dreams to the editor...
If inspiration was my muse it was taken mid-sentance ...
But if sadness means you will listen...
Than I guess writing is the gift that I wish i could return....