It's hard to write it all down.
It's hard to move the pen and empty your thoughts with this ink.
Your eyes are dried and filled with memories that are
too raw to blink.
It's hard to see the words that make it more concrete,
As if the constant, vivid images in your head
Doesn't already burn off a sickening heat.
I'm supposed to be whom I write.
Scribble every last word till there's no more white.
I'm not supposed to write the poetry, but become it,
Be the element that's always kept hovering above this bottomless pit.
Whoever said it was easy to grab your mind and heart,
Throw it together, break it up, and spit it out,
Never knew what it felt like to relive every grief, pain, and regret
Just to show you what their skin and eyes are all about.
They couldn't possibly understand this kind of art and therapy,
The scars it asks you to reopen and heal,
So that one day you might even wake up and feel free.
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