I write when I'm sad.
And darling, there are days, there are nights my fingertips bleed black ink, and I smear every surface I touch with words that no one else will bother to read.
I write when I'm sad, and sometimes, I leave phrases in my footsteps, the print of my lipstick on the smoothness of my coffee cup, the marks on my skin by the fingernails I refuse to cut.
I write when I'm sad, and it's one of those nights where I'm sobbing out verses of poetry in between sighs, as my fingers clench and unclench; I am a storybook and my spine is cracked, and my pages are fluttering away in the mild breeze blowing through my window. I am losing pieces of myself, and the plot doesn't make sense anymore - nothing makes sense - so I don't know what else to do except cry.
I write when I'm sad. And honey, I'm a mess. I'm a mess of wasted ink and crumpled paper, of misspelled words and misread sentences. I saw your eyes flit over me, and I saw at once that you misunderstood the paragraphs that make up my skin, and you'll never think deep enough to ever know anything about my soul.
I write when I'm sad.
I haven't stopped writing ever since I started six years ago, and I honestly don't think I ever will.
YOU ARE READING
Acedia
Поэзия[ A c e d i a : ennui ; state of torpor or listlessness ; spiritual apathy ] Poetry attempts / Random thoughts / Musings (P.S. I'm not very good at this, don't expect too much. Thanks)
