They say with pain comes art.
But how can I create
Without seeing light?  
How can I make beauty out of this weight that is crushing my chest, cracking through my ribs, just so it can break my heart?
Art does not come from pain.
Pain comes from pain.
These poems I write, are therapy.
Because I don’t know how else to heal.
They are cries for help.
Because I don’t know exactly what to say unless I try so hard to explain my hurt it begins to disguise itself.
If art comes from pain, I wish so badly to become painfully boring.
I would rather be unable to hold a pen and only to hold my tongue.  
This is not beautiful, it is tragic and my poems are just a price being paid.
Please know that if you fall in love with a poem, it was not easy to write.
Please know if you fall in love with me, I am not easy to hold.
I tremble, with my words seeming strong,
I am still broken.
My poems keep alive my worst memories.
You read them and give me praise.
I read them and call it closure.
Although I still can’t leave my bed.
I’m not saying I don’t like writing I’m just saying please, read what I’m saying.
Really read it.
Tell me you like what I have written.
Tell me you want me to take a break from writing.