It seems that no matter how much I write,
I never truly let out
exactly how I feel inside.
And no matter what I do,
every new method or different word I use,
all I can do is try.
Writing is my escape, but it’s also
a way for me to get a grasp,
get a hold of reality;
to turn it around and play with it,
mold it, fold it, twist it and turn it,
into exactly what I want it to be.
And every time I create
a reality slightly new, slightly better,
and I leave with a smile,
one that only lasts a little while.
Because eventually true life settles back in,
gets comfortable again,
rips my hopes from my hands
and leaves me there, alone and confused.
And I look around and see nothing.
Blank. Gone. Wiped clean.
And I fall to the floor in despair,
wishing that I was anywhere but there.
The only thing left is a pen.
And I wipe my eyes and I realize
this is all I’ve got.
So I start to write as fast as I can,
as fast as my hand will let me;
and I try and try to understand
why this keeps happening again and again…