Want to know why I did not die?
Because I did write.
Want to know why I survived?
Easy - because I write!
I was 13 - I was lost
and I wanted to **** myself
I wrote a letter to, but instead
I had a story to be told
my own...though I did not know...
a brain to arrange - my feels,
my thoughts
Art up, broken child!
Bleed onto the page and go drain the pain!
Do something! Make sense!
The night was threatening and I could not sleep
Everything so sharply and hurtfully real
I touched life and oh, ****** blisters
all over me
Opposites coming close
I am the mixture of them all
And my soul was shabby and in ruins
I could not tell what was me and what wasn't true,
so many times
Nothing was clear but the soreness
I felt, yet that was the proof I was there, too.
Art up, broken child! Do not lick the wound,
stitch it with a few rhymes!
And there were faint rays
of what could be
The kiss I never got these days
The dreams I had that got delayed
Later, the flow got stopped - because I got clogged
All pain, all emptiness, all doubt
Frozen inside, fetters outside - caught up
I decided to retreat because I could not be
yet I thought I was striving to be freed
Had no certainties at all, so my mouth I shut
so my power I shunned - I was blocked
So I can never shut up
without shutting down
And my words came back at me
as soon as I entered again the scene
I am here because my pen never sleeps
Therapy can be expensive but notebooks
are cheap
Yet now sometimes I feel so full
My pen is bloated in it too.
And we lie happy, satisfied,
just seeing things go by,
just wanting to be by your side...
something big
goes on when I don't write
