As a writer, I must bleed myself onto paper
Draw inspiration from the fountain of my sorrow
Be the best and the worst; all at once
But how can I continue to write if I don’t feel anything?
Must pain be the price of my eloquence?
Welcome this solitude; my best friend; my worst enemy
As it seeps into my heart and makes me weep
But I can’t put these tears on paper
They have no language of their own
To write and let you know how I feel
To confess what my heart cannot carry
Isn’t that the whole point?
So why is it that I only reach for my pen when I am in despair?
And run it across the page as it bleeds to try and make sense of everything
Why is it that I run towards others when I am happy
And return to myself when I am sad
Be with a heart in a heartless world; alienated and afraid
I must learn to be in the world and not of the world