This is me

This is me

I am the stars, millions

I was born half in a wall
they Said there was nothing to be done
about It
So I grew with the wall and outside
of It

I am half stuck in a brick wall
but
It's fine because I
can STILL
half-smile

I am half-hidden inside a brick wall
smoking half-truths and half-moons

They came on a rainy evening
Rising shadows with
Roots crawling underneath
Damp earth
Clutching
They stole my scream

I wonder if the stabs are really
acupuncture

I know. For a while now, I've known. I must be a writer. It's not a wish, a dream, an aspiration. It's a need. A feeling that if I don't find a way of putting my thoughts unto paper, they'll claw their way out, and leave me a carcass of miasma. Leaving me to rot.
I may not write beautifully. Make grave mistakes. I have no idea if there are any rules, hell I might've broken all of them by now.
But I don't care. I don't strive to be great. I won't be any Gaiman, Atwood or Tolkien (Yes those are the first names that popped into my mind). Not taught in public schools, probably never published.
But all that doesn't matter to me. Writing is not a choice. It's a necessity.

Looking back
I see your back

I used to think love was all in the dramatic
Life films made from memories found in the attic

But now I'm not so sure
And I'm hoping that means I'm just more mature

I don't want to lose the allure of love
But I also wanted to see it in reality, not just from above

Love can sometimes be screaming matches and passionate kisses
Running, hunting for each other like the church for Salem witches

But now I'm finding what I want most
Is quiet afternoons, long bike rides, and morning toast

For I've had enough drama to last a lifetime
And I haven't been on this earth for a long time.