I hope my thoughts fill my journal’s paper as effortlessly as an artist’s paint strokes fills their canvas.
As if their expression of the heart was just muscle memory.
I want my words to fill the edges of my paper because they have taken all my head space.
Scribbling the words off the edges of the paper to be etched in the desk & forever out of my memory.
I wish the words may begin to fill the gaps of my emotions.
& I keep writing my own story over and over and over again.
In hopes that if I write it enough times the end will arrive differently.
Cause the years taught me that life can make you bitter as the grapes that fill your inner vine.
& Unlike wine I have learned people don’t always get better with time.
So, I write, and write, and write until all my grief becomes blessing.
— The End —