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.
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