Maybe writing is not that complicated at all.
Maybe the ink is just my blood flowing and falling on the paper as I try to express the pain—
the pain that has been traveling through my veins, like a trapped mouse trying to escape.
Or perhaps the paper is the arms I wished would hold me while I was falling apart,
and the possibility of the notebook being the best listener still remains.
The sound of scratching paper might be music to my miserable soul after all.
Every line that I write could be a chain around my neck, choking me out.
Maybe the feeling of acceptance, despite all of my broken pieces, is what I was longing for.
In the quiet moments, I find solace in the words,
each syllable a step toward healing, a whisper of hope in the dark.
And as the ink dries, I realize that my scars tell a story,
a testament to survival, a map of the journey I've walked.
YOU ARE READING
Between Notes and Tacenda: The Prose of Life
PoetryIn the spaces between our spoken words and the silence that follows, life unfolds a tapestry woven from the notes we play and the tacenda we carry. For Tina, my anchor in this sea of words.
