This is where my soul hides. It is a book full of words that combines into an art. My only runaway mess of reality. It is a pack of love, heartbreak, and the dark side of me put into one. So, here I scream my thoughts, will you feel my scars?

Just a little glimpse of how I live my life. Written in a form of poetry. I started to wonder and I still was when I wrote those first few lines. As I continue to write, an idea; a theory slowly crept into my mind. What if this is the real me? All this. Everything that I wrote and will write. I am most comfortable when I write. All the feelings come at once, it's a balance. The ideas rush to me as if I'm in a museum full of art. Writing always feels right for me. When I want to get everything out of my chest, I write, but not that I want to keep it like a diary. When I fluidly form sentences, I feel like I'm in this vacuumed void, free from all worries; all negativity that will eventually destroy me. Yes, I'm writing a lot about sad and depressing things, but funny enough, I do not feel like that as soon as I start to write. It seems like the worries that haunt me in my head transfer to my hand, to the pen, then to paper I was writing on. My anxiety transfigures into words and are inked on the paper. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels that, as Lang Leav have quoted, "all sad people write."