I used to write, like, really write. Poetry and lunacy, scrawling rebellion across each page of my notebook and leaving heartbreak in the margins. It was messy and raw and mostly illegible. Unrefined. But read it aloud and a good poem makes its own backing track, not always musical, but the melody of emotion or the passion of an impressionable mind. The drum beat of a harsh truth.
Words failed to capture my disillusionment.