Gunned down by life and heartbreaks
Wanting to share my own stories
Tossing gasoline onto my pages
Burning hot escapades recorded by my heart
Pen held by shaking hands
Glued to the sheets
Spilling truth and realistic fiction
Dictations that noted how wild I used to be
Looking for freedom inside of a broken me
Laughing loudly enough to scare away the sadness
that rattle these walls
Making love look so small and incapable of accommodating
For equal opportunity
Writing on whiteness while wearing black
Mandating my pen to push past these difficult conversations
Shorthand doesn't capture my value system
A flip book of evidence leaving me standing still
Injecting more strain into my veins
Hangovers laced with pain
Writing at least 3 times a week is fundamental
to keep me from blacking out
Hours gone from my brain
de-escalating the madness
draining the darkness
So I can feel the light
Traveling through time unplugged and off-line so the painful memories can't be retrieved
When my body washes up on the safe shores the next morning...
Questions of the day
What do you do when writing doesn't bring you the comfort that is needed?
When was the last time you shared your writing with someone?
Entitle the piece... "For the Writer in Me"