There are only so many truths
I can write.
Only so much creativity
Until it runs dry.
How much longer
till my hand reaches the blade?
How much more
Cathartic writing can finally
Keep my mind at bay?
I try to remember
When a busy mind controls a steady hand,
I should be mindful of the tools I put in it,
But I am only so strong.
I hate to admit it.
And yet,
Even now,
I continue to write.
My hand reaches for the pen
And rejects the knife.
Each line is a release,
A release of the pain my mind holds deep.
But there are only so many pages to fill,
Only so much ink to bleed.
One day,
The well will run dry,
And I will plead with myself,
But the page will remain blank,
And my mind will greet the knife
Like it had never left.
A silent surrender
That the scars
Will never let me forget,
And if the words don't come,
Will the blade be the next to speak again?
When words fail,
I will try to seek a different light.