I was that kid. the kid with the dreams.
the fatherless artist that forgot how to read.
who thought she could make it on talent alone.
so I write as a distraction, and to feel something old.
i’ll keep hiding through writing and praying and waiting
though the fire in my heart is already fading.
my piano and my pen are already foreign in these hands i’m tired.
tired of writing about pain
but how can I not when there’s nothing to think and i’m tired.
tired of seeing this face
and lying to people who said they were safe.
i’m the first to admit to the artist’s mistake.
I mastered something with love and life threw it away.
Just wake up. and fake up to make money for meds
so I won’t feel my feelings or try to be dead
but I can’t do anything, can’t have anything
I can’t feel the hug of god’s ring on my finger anymore.  
so here’s to the writer, the liar, to me.
the kid with old dreams who writes and weeps.