I can spill my guts by only ever spilling ink.
Slicing through the paper with a pen,
it's the kind of permanancy everyone wishes for.
A spontaneous tattoo in the binds of a notebook.
What is the inspiration of today's design?
I've fashioned butterflies from the rush of nerves he gave me--
they're pink, just like my cheeks were.
I've fabricated daggars from the tears I've spilled,
and the blurred lines became the blades,
though no real damage was done.
I've drafted love letters in the shape of lips,
but I can never seem to get the shading right.
How could I when all I ever saw when I looked at you
were your big and beautiful eyes?
I stopped writing with a pencil after my first poem
because I can't erase how I feel in real life.
I stopped writing (with pens) altogether
because if put how I feel in writing, it makes it real.
Creating is a liberating thrill,
and I could never have imagined all the pages I would fill.
Line after line after line,
I've given myself to ability to go back in time.
Everything I've written,
everything I've felt,
it's all available with the flip of a finger,
but sometimes those old feelings come back and linger.
I'm not sure that all I write is poetry,
but I do know that what I do means a lot to me.
The first words I ever wrote were those inspired a long time ago:
"I'm trying to escape my own mind,
the thoughts in here are eating me alive."
I'm not as good as I could be.
I'm not as good as I should be.
But I have accomplished the task that used to be,
for writing has become my sanity.