Holding a pencil in the belief it is a pen.
I cannot go back and right my wrongs; for I'm writing as though it were ink.
These words that bleed through me they're intricate to put to paper.
Just let it go you'll tell me, but it's not so simple.
There's a piece of me here and there.
Then there's a story I can't leave unfinished.
Words that flow through me become jumbled, and I'll lose my sanity trying to figure it out.
So here I am putting my thoughts to paper.
Writing in a pencil I believe to be a pen.
Where hopefully these words aren't as intricate as they'd seemed to be.