I stole my voice from a red headed boy my freshman year of high school. His twiddling thumbs and broken pencils caught my eye,
I picked up the bad habit like it was smoke entering my pretty pink lungs for the first time.
I wrote run on sentences that lingered somewhere between lyrical and tragic,
I stumbled through nouns and mumbled my way to failing before I even tried. I just wanted peace to expand my broken artistic ability,
My home life was anything but quiet. I drowned out the noise with cracking spines,
A new book with perfect pages... I wanted to staple myself into them. Managing sadness with stress I took to the lines of notebooks to relieve my aching emotions,
My eyes continued to flutter shut in disappointment so I took to writing about others,
Women in back alleys that guzzle bottles of catcalls like a baby,
fishnets aren't the unspoken yes.
Men who cry themselves to sleep at night,
third world countries that have it worse than us,
My eyes are still dry from staring at the broken pencils in front of me. Unfinished pieces of art that speak loudly in the minds of others,
but leave me with fake expression and a burning in my throat that won't go away. I picked up the bad habit of a worldly mind that couldn't keep it's mouth shut, and
with all the smoke entering my lungs...
I'm writing in staggering breaths and coughs. I'm writing in screams and shouts and complete ignorance to what's going on around me,
maybe I should start with the room i'm sitting in. Maybe,
I should start with me. But not with my sadness or my stress or my life at home,
I'll start with the passion that I stole from a redheaded boy my freshman year of high school. I'll start with my bad... habits.
Work in progress, yo.