To write wasn’t a passion of mine,
When I learned of life?
My brain suddenly sparked a fire.
You see,
We’re always plunged right into the sea!
I can’t help but swim frantically.
I’m not a swimmer though,
So I kept on sinking.
Towards the abyss.
In a dark place,
I found something darker.
The ink of my pen.
Seeing as my darkness doesn’t compare,
I saw my own darkness as light.
Now I write when it’s night.
I couldn’t make any rhymes,
Just incoherent thoughts.
I wasn’t creative enough.
I couldn’t draw any art,
I couldn’t compose any songs.
All I can do was speak.
Now?
I can just speak without a voice.
This pen of mine speaks.
I’m an open book,
Talk to me and I talk back.
My doubt riddle words.
In my darkest days,
Where my voice doesn’t echo back,
I have my pen.
Light isn’t a reflection of others.
It’s a spark within your headspace.
When everything else disappears.
I’m in a dark place, and whenver I’m down here, I write whatever I can. Raw thoughts, incoherent, abstract, random, gibberish, trash. I writ when I’m down, it’s an outlet to plunge myself deeper so I could die and respawn. My creativity doesn’t exist; only destruction on paper.
