I am burnout
Have nothing to talk about
Each minute my mind racing with doubt
But nothing seems to come out of my mouth

Today, I don’t have anything
Not a single idea I could bring
My heart is so numb there’s not even a sting
Maybe it’s better off to be just stopping

I know I don’t have enough talent
But this is the only way I can vent
To help my soul slowly mend,
Writing became my only friend

I wish I had more words to say
But my head is still swimming in gray
I need my mind to fly away
Because maybe then, my body will decide to stay

I will never write a poetry about you.

Because what I wrote were my unsaid pains.

Uncried tears.

My broken self.

And I don't want you

To be one of them.

In this world,

Where letters are my warriors,

Words are my wounds,

Sentences are my scars,

And a poem is my pain,

I'll forever keep you

As my whisper of peace

Beyond cold wars.

As my tap of rest

Beyond tiredness.

As my click of happiness

Beyond grief.

Because

You are way more than

Those unbearable pains.

You are way more than

Those uncurable wounds.

You are way more than

Every poetries I wrote, baby.

Let me walk you through inside a writer's mind.

Aren't you curious?

How can someone write like that?
How can someone have those sick emotions?
How can someone be so dramatic?
How can someone be that suicidal?
How can someone be so sad?

You know what?
Being able to write about those things is a privilege.
If I have no one to talk to,
if I have no one to vent all my sentiments,
poems are going to slap me with a pen and a paper.
And i'm all good.
Once i've let go of that burning pen,
the moment I read what I wrote into that ****** paper.
My diaphragm finally relaxed,
I can finally breathe.

And when a writer doesn't have any inspiration,
that soul must do all thy take to feel everything and anything in order to fill those pages, those ****** pages.

You must value every word you read inside a poem or any kind of literature.

Because you didn't know what emotional ride that living flesh took just to serve you those burning hot raw words.

But aren't you curious?
Don't you want to know what it took?
What it took to serve those emotions to you?

A writer...
Scream, screamed like a mad sicko.

A writer...
Cry, cried like a new born baby.

A writer...
Laugh, laughed like there's no tomorrow.

A writer...
Burn, burned in their own oil.

A writer...
Slit, slitted thy skin and...

A writer...
Cut, cutted thy flesh and...

A writer...
Bleed, bleed until there's no more left.

Bleed until that living soul can write something.

A writer...
Is empty.

A writer...
Is a lost soul who can't find it's way back.

A writer...
Is dead... inside.

Then, viola!

A burning hot literature is served.

And that, my friend, is what inside a writer's mind.