It's not as easy as it seems, sliding the words across a page to paint one's canvas heart, but somehow I manage.
I write a story of pain and love, of how something always ends up to be a someone. But sometimes the things I say aren't always peace, sometimes they end in anger, sometimes they end in a wager and yet sometimes they end in death.
It's not as easy as it seems, to be the one burdened with another's tongue. The cost of writing is it takes a piece of you, the hardships leave their own scars and the love breathes back into your life.
Did you hear what happened to me? Fears became a reality, lies poisoned my life and made me feel safer in the night. Where shadows have class but what hides in the sun makes them seem not so bad.
It's not as easy as it seems, pretending that this is all fine and that it's not making me cry. That I'm not slowly going insane or that I won't drown in my own pain; I'm floating on a raft of life that will soon become apart of the night.
So when a writer tries to set their pages free, a discouraged friend will pull them back in only to keep their pain within. Voices are written because they're the words that can't be said, the writer's soul is almost dead.
A beating heart lies in their pen, the ink spilling is part of one's kin, and the word, the voice that can no longer scream. The room is too loud, so they pull out page after page and people dig in to see.
People love to read stories because they think they can relate, but what they don't understand is the pages aren't their gates to a friend. The characters they love are for the writer, the doors are open with their pens and their bonds have broke.
For the time being, all they can do is hope. Writers write for the people who relate, but writers also write to hold open their gates.
6 / 27 / 2018