She sat in her chair across from me
Scribbling on a pad of paper that held pieces of my life in a careless pattern
“Write,” she said.
So simple and stupid
As if writing in a journal can change my problems
As if violent words would suffice my screams
As if written pleas will help me.
Her suggestion was pushed to the back of my mind
Clouded by dark sickness
And I sat on the edge
My mind was eating me alive.
My insides were cursing terrors that blinded my eyes and stripped my beliefs
Mental blackness disguised red and raw
In that moment
Alone in the bathroom with the company of a blade
Her words flashed across my mind
“It can’t be any worse,” I thought.
Written words couldn’t possibly dig me deeper
So I found a pencil
Dull as can be
So I found paper
White and pure
My hand painted words that drowned in the tears falling off my face
It moved so quickly
Everything inside of my flowed straight through my hand
Releasing the pressure I felt
The pressure I thought could only be released by a blade.
When my hand stopped moving
My tears dried on the page and stained my eyes red
I felt drained and weak
I was alive.
The once blank page was now beautiful.
Emotion in black swirls known as words filled every space
Every trouble was quarantined
My head was no longer clouded.
I write to stay alive.
Because every poem
-With scrambled words and distorted meanings-
Is my soul clinging to survival.
My journal may be raw and intense
But those rhymes define who I am.
They are me written in pen.
Poetry over blades
That is why I write.