I feel so raw after I write. Through the meat grinder my emotions fall into words. Have you ever loved something so much that every ounce of pain is worth the effort? With each sentence, elation and angst. But it comes so naturally.
By instinct it flows and gathers. A heartless sleeve, I leave mine on paper.
Much more versed at formulating thoughts into writing, my intentions are often misread through speech alone. My words are braver, more thoughtful and just. Everything I wish to be, and yet, everything that I truly am.
The chaos and stress swirl until inked, the author healed each time. All you can do is just put it out there and pray someone gains a new perspective.
Seeing it all in writing makes sense, a way to organize and codify. Like each dying breath, each word takes more away and leaves you more vulnerable. But you just cannot find the strength and desire to stop.
You bleed to heal like you write to survive. It is art, after all.
I will continue to share too much of myself, shielded by the screen of my laptop. For, to me, to write is to breathe and I do not intend on denying myself that necessary function of life anytime soon.
Words never so true!
Writing helps me work through things. With it all on paper I can see how the pieces fit. Until I let it out, it all bottles up inside of me. I put everything I have into my writing and I am blessed to have this outlet.