I stiffen, I stumble,
I'm static, I'm humbled
and slowly I mumble
these words of defeat.
You're reading, I'm writing
of all of my findings.
I'm digging, I'm hurting.
Outcome, bittersweet.
The past is my mask,
and today is a blur for me.
That mask has molded me,
the future's grown murky.
In depths of despair,
I write out my affairs.
Devil thought he got me,
yet I've drained all my worry
onto the page in front of me.

I'm bitter, yet triggered
to reveal how I feel,
I'm the sender of mail
made out to you to no avail.
The girl that catches me
inside miles of magic
won't know how I'm feeling,
these words of mine are tragic.
I cannot grow wings
yet my words make me soar.
I've never had a voice,
yet the page hears me roar.
I've bled, I've fed into mistakes.
Hands write so fast I can't keep up it's pace.
That mask of my past no longer fits my face.

I hurt, yet I write to deal with that hurt.
Clutching to pens, for better or worse.
If I either merge with the clouds or go in reverse,
just know I was happy that you read these words.
It's a daily conflict and come to find out
that it's a daily that's also become my reward.
That word has multiple meanings to me,
I've always used my pen like it was my sword.
Yesterday was a day that I sold out to misery,
yet today is a day where I claim a victory.