I put the ball point to my paper again.
Page tore when met with tear soaked blotches.
The work flows best when in distress.
I couldnt tell you what ive done all these years, but I know they were tortured and wasted.
I haven't heard my voice in days
but I finally picked up the pen.
Even if its the same variety of words telling the same story i've told before
I'll be back in my notes; it's inevitable.
Im seeing the pattern and it hurts but
its predictable and for some reason that feels better.
Even if no one was listening or reading, at least I said something.