I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy

And this is how you love as a writer-


There is no cap to contain this spillage, the ink thickening while these feelings you didn’t expect overtake you.


This is a tragedy, you question yourself; you question them; you question if any of this is actually real and your answer comes in the form of the metaphors you’ve just written, your emotions splattered across the page in the most artistic form you could muster.


It almost looks like a mosaic, little pieces of your heart assembled to create an image of the faces of the ones you hold dear to you, or at least wish you could because sometimes it just doesn’t work out that way.


Almost. 


The difference between what you see and what the people who read your work see is they don’t see the process, they see the cracks and they see the blood but they don’t see the amount of times you had to piece yourself back together again.


As a writer, your work is a tourist attraction, a museum of midnight thoughts people who have only ever heard of you in name or may have never heard of you at all can come to learn about your life.


They call it beautiful.


You call it tragic.


Where is the beauty in all of this broken?


You wish you could ask them how they arrived at that conclusion, you wish you could see what they see but you don’t because you know how you got there and cannot be oblivious to the sadness, happiness and fear that some nights feels like it’s etched into your soul so instead, you just keep writing, leaving yourself in each metaphor and simile hoping that one day you can look back on them fondly and hoping they don’t end up as merely another exhibit to be so intensely misunderstood.


To the person I fall in love with someday, this is how I will love you, with every bit of me that I can still manage to present.


So when I write you poem after poem, please bear with me.

Someone once told me that I’ll never know what it’s like to experience real pain. But yet it’s almost four in the morning and I’m thinking about what life would be like for the people around me if I wasn’t here while I’m letting out silent screams in hopes for no one to hear just so I can have more of an excuse to be alone while I’m suffering with a dangerous mind and an aching heart. The only words escaping my mouth is the name of someone who once promised me that they wouldn’t leave but did and if that’s not real pain then I don’t know what is