It's not art if it just comes out of fear is it?
It's just the demons speaking.
They tell me that's useless,
that I'm powerless,
I lack of any effort
or letter.
yet...
the weights in my hands...
prevent me from writing what I have to say...
..keep me from saying what I want to write.
They don't allow me to think
because when I do,
it's all blur lines in the dark,
it's all past tense,
it's all disaster ahead.
It's myself dead,
it's myself sad.
It's the fear to write
with the courage to admit the fear you have.
But is it really that brave?
If all I do is think without direction?
Breathe without conviction?
Laugh without substance, cry without being convincingly hurt.
It's all hurt,
it's all dirt.
It's yet another text,
another round for the fighter.
It's yet another instance
where feeling lost meets the writer.