Jun 2014
I tread lightly,
hoping not to step on the land mines that surround my subconscious.
Because every step ahead is somehow in the wrong direction
and it seems to me that last thing people want from me,
is my own happiness.
And it's like everything I want to write somehow
crumbles beneath my fingers and I can't grasp
the simple concept of a pen in my hand,
and it seems like whenever I try too hard
nothing turns out the way I want
and when I don't try at all and these words
just pour from my veins
like the slits that used to form on my wrists,
and it's all so ******* beautiful and different.
But when I think, even for a split second,
about the words I want to write down
and how I want to write them
nothing, nothing at all comes out
and I'm tired of not ******* knowing,
anything, everything all the ******* time.
Am I a good writer,
or am I only a good writer in the distress
that life puts upon these shoulders
that are withered and weak
sore from the constant internal abuse,
and the lashes that leave your lips
leave bruises upon my fingertips
and my hand becomes crippled.
I can't ******* write anymore,
and maybe if I could I would feel a little better
about who I am and what I am becoming.
but these fingers, these fingers are mountains
and no one seems to want to take the chance
to climb to the top and see the beautiful view I create.
Not even myself.
I have written, probably over 200 pieces of poetry
since the time I have been 9 years old
and they all sound the ******* same.
stanza stanza stanza stanza
sorrow, mournful, love, depression, more sorrow.
and I don't know how the **** to change.
I'm sorry I don't know how to ******* change,
I wish I could open your eyes to the beauty of it all
but it's only madness and the only beauty of it
is what someone feels they interpret from it.
This love, is not easy
never has been, never will be.
but somehow I never want to lose it,
I never want to let it go.
I want to write everyday,
even when my fingers crumble
under the weight of a heavy pen
and a heavy heart.
I will prosper and write and write
and ******* write again.
This life will not lead to my destruction,
nor will this pen.
The only one who can end my story,
is me.
So get the **** out of my way.
hoping not to step on the land mines that surround my subconscious.
Because every step ahead is somehow in the wrong direction
and it seems to me that last thing people want from me,
is my own happiness.
And it's like everything I want to write somehow
crumbles beneath my fingers and I can't grasp
the simple concept of a pen in my hand,
and it seems like whenever I try too hard
nothing turns out the way I want
and when I don't try at all and these words
just pour from my veins
like the slits that used to form on my wrists,
and it's all so ******* beautiful and different.
But when I think, even for a split second,
about the words I want to write down
and how I want to write them
nothing, nothing at all comes out
and I'm tired of not ******* knowing,
anything, everything all the ******* time.
Am I a good writer,
or am I only a good writer in the distress
that life puts upon these shoulders
that are withered and weak
sore from the constant internal abuse,
and the lashes that leave your lips
leave bruises upon my fingertips
and my hand becomes crippled.
I can't ******* write anymore,
and maybe if I could I would feel a little better
about who I am and what I am becoming.
but these fingers, these fingers are mountains
and no one seems to want to take the chance
to climb to the top and see the beautiful view I create.
Not even myself.
I have written, probably over 200 pieces of poetry
since the time I have been 9 years old
and they all sound the ******* same.
stanza stanza stanza stanza
sorrow, mournful, love, depression, more sorrow.
and I don't know how the **** to change.
I'm sorry I don't know how to ******* change,
I wish I could open your eyes to the beauty of it all
but it's only madness and the only beauty of it
is what someone feels they interpret from it.
This love, is not easy
never has been, never will be.
but somehow I never want to lose it,
I never want to let it go.
I want to write everyday,
even when my fingers crumble
under the weight of a heavy pen
and a heavy heart.
I will prosper and write and write
and ******* write again.
This life will not lead to my destruction,
nor will this pen.
The only one who can end my story,
is me.
So get the **** out of my way.
