I am ready…. But nothing happens.
Pen in hand
Ready to be filled.
But still, nothing happens.
The feelings are there; broken and tired.
The thoughts are present; screaming in my mind.
But no words seem to be coming out.
No words could ever explain the hell inside.
The voices in my head are mocking me
” you can’t do anything right,
Not even write your own emotions down”
The voices just keep getting louder
And I find myself drifting with them.
“What if they aren’t wrong?
What if I really can’t write?
What can I do without this,
The sweet release of art?”
Writing is what helps me deal with life
It makes me sane and keeps me upright.
It is the only way to clear my mind
And hear my soul.
This wall, this block is my hell.
It bottles my demons up inside
And gives them the voice to speak
And the strength to beat me down.
This block is their weapon.
And writing is mine.
And those poems are the battle grounds.
So I will stare at that paper
Till words obey me
And transform my pain into letters for the world to see
And for me to see the blood of my slain demons.