I lay awake,
And honestly my mind is struggling to create a poem,
Truthfully, writing as an art is becoming foreign to me,
Nowadays it’s just turned into screaming into my steering wheel while listening to loud music.

I can’t lie, some days that’s the only thing that helps,
And some days I just have to listen to the rain pelts.

I’ve had to learn to find beauty,
And intricacy,
And love,
Between the lines of what is supposed to be stupid and simple.

I was asked the question,
“What helps relieve the pain?”
I held back what I know used to help,
And answered with my own question…

What constitutes pain?
Is it a burning feeling through your veins?
Or the hollow feeling in your chest after your heart is shattered into a million pieces?

I don’t know, there’s no real answer. To either questions.

I’ve found myself writing at this time more and more,
Not because it’s a pleasant time to write,
But I believe there is a reason.

There is a part of me that believes the reason is a blessing,
But at times I feel its a curse,
But maybe it’s a reminder of how I could have ended up in a hurst.

So at 1:00 AM,
I sit in bed,
I listen to the rain outside,
And I write.

Not to relieve the pain,
And it’s not to fight the stars,
It’s not even to dream of nights in bars,
It’s to replace the blood with clean water inside the broken drain.