I decided to draw today
to let her out
my demons been getting restless
The words I long to say
they just
Wont come out
So now
Im turning to a visual
Spill of words

That puts everything aside
Disconnecting everything in my brain
Letting my hands take control
The pencil
To freely dance across the page
To let out whatever needs to be free
That I cant see

Letting the thoughts
The pictures
The words
That I have never seen heard or felt
to come out
Be free

My pen wore red, and scathed a struggling stroke
Black became it better, until feeble nib broke

Blue cried abiding stains, after much impatient rigour
Green was inconsolable, and pink was unconsidered

It was led who was left when all else lacked
That was until rouge eraser attacked

Is it a conscious activity of the precarious pen
To cease work as you require it again and again?

I’m trying to express how I feel like I did as a child,
Through crayons and pencils
Pressed into paper until they break in two.
How can I feel so hopeless
Doing something I used to love to do?
Like I did as a child
I make myself small and cry in my closet
That painful sobbing that hurts your throat
And convince myself yet again to give up.

I read my horoscope
each morning
thinking I have a glimpse
into the future

Little did I know
that stories change
when the writer
does