It is not in my nature to be honest, not with myself that is
Not until I hold the pen and burn upon the words I wish to overlook.
My writing and its creation, makes me brave. It creates the universe to be pure and fufilling it outcasts shadows and moves ripples in the underbelly of my anguish and even joy.
Writing to me is my escape, I am Don Quixote fighting the windmill giants; I am a tourist escaping to endless skies, the skies that drip diamonds painted in a canvas of blue and violet.
The words that burn my heart and mind are uplifted when cast free into the sea of pages, recollections from memories and fairytales that I wish to relive every so often when I am blue, but it make me brave.
Iam braver then I was when the words rattled my head and ached my heart, I was sent into spirals when I couldn't escape my dismay until I found you, a soft delicate sheet that would soon be filled with my upmost honesty.
I am braver for ever moment wanting to scream or wail, but I choose you instead, my handy pen
For the moment I am braver when I write then when I speak, at times the words get caught up in my throat and I have to breath too mortified with the honesty that may slip out, too embarrassed, too shy, too affraid of what I have unleashed.
My words are my weapons and for some they may be grave, for others too real to contain, forgive me but I always knew honesty was never my bravery.
until I found you.... poetry.