Misconstrue

Writing

Talking to a pen within these bland white walls I call home, thinking if I can release the words inside they’ll misconstrue the pain that my mind is always rolling and dancing in. I’m the greatest enemy to myself, I find myself trying to eliminate the delicate darkness that resides within the corners of my mind.

The pen doesn’t talk back, it just listens to me. I can’t speak the words from my mouth; the words all come from my heart. The say home is where the heart is, I suppose my heart is cold, since my home has never felt like one. I’m sure I will find a place to call home, that I can fill with warmth straight from my heart. Until then I will find comfort within the words that my heart ejects out.

I’m surprised I can find inspiration within these dark corners of my white walled home.

My writing and my words are a compilation of the emotions and word choices that I never have had the heart to say. Overall it sucks that I’m stuck in a vortex of repeated stories behind these curtains I call eyelids. Behind these curtains a great play is awaiting to be written a story that I have been waiting to tell the world, not the world. Supposedly to someone who will just listen to me and not give me sympathetic sorry and tell me the things that they have just grown into the habit of saying.

I’ve choked on the words that I’ve wanted to say for so long. Conversations with the pen within my fingertips free me from the shackled words lodged within the depths of my being.

Through the madness, I know I’ll find my way and I’ll be okay.

I feel lost in space, floating past the rings of Saturn and drifting slowly by the cold exterior of Neptune’s heart. I don’t have bearings; I have begun to lose everything.

Family is irrelevant and friends are just as much so, but family more so. I depend on my family to keep their words, but when they speak words and attempt to be compassionate and then let me down. That hurts more than anything a friend, a girl, or anyone else can do. Family is forever but I can’t always depend on them. I’ve lost them all; I’ve lost my family to petty arguments that lead to rainforest colored carpets being drowned in teardrops. I’ve lost my uncles and aunts to diseases and addictions; I’ve lost my grandmother to my slip of the tongue and anger causing actions. I’ve lost myself to the lies I tell myself every morning when I rise from a fanatic slumber of realistic dreaming. I’ve lost my talent to write about the things that burden my heart. I’ve lost my friends I allowed them to my ear, an ear that I lent them so they could feel like someone cared. I still do.

I’ve lost my magical touch with the way I construe and construct these words that I write. I’m scared

I’m truly and honestly frightened that I will lose all of the talent that I have with doing what I love.

So I’ll do it until I’ve run out of words and inspiration. I’ll keep writing these pieces of me until I’ve run dry of wisdom and silver tongued words to show the world.

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