with a heavy heart,
i write.
i write to save my life,
to make myself feel something
when the rain pounding my window
gets too monotonous.
i write to confirm my faith
in words,
that even when everyone else fails me,
they will be waiting
(to be bled)
on my notebook's pages.
they don't judge me.
i write when
i am in love,
when i need an outlet to expel color,
when i need a list of metaphors
(to compare to his eyes).
my pen is the only one who knows
why i press so hard
(when i write your name).
i write because i'm broken,
because even the closest to me
don't know
what the hell is going on beneath the surface.
i'm sorry for isolating myself but
you couldn't help me anyways.
i write to remind myself
of the beating of my own heart,
the tears in my eyes, half-moons
in my palms.
(i write to remind myself
that i am alive.)