We are poets.
We find ourselves at 3am with overthinking minds
where writing becomes our solace.
We fall in love with language because we are the writers of words long forgotten.
We spend hours trying to describe poetically
the simplest things you could imagine
or we spend a few minutes trying to explain the meaning of life.
We have the darkest and most twisted minds,
filled with beauty and madness
We write so much that not writing makes us anxious
We are the dreamers in an awake world
the sufferers in a peaceful time.
We are poets,
and our fingers become the pen in which we write
as we pour out our souls onto the page of our hearts
We write until our words become us
and we write until moving a pen across paper
becomes our breathing.
I’m trying to dissipate into mystical abysses, but how can when my mind can hardly stay awake? Every breath I take is a breath closer to my last one. Fate lies in every move I make. Dreams are just escapes because my mind cannot bear the truth. The truth that this is my life, a confusing and dark place where I can't seem to even call my own mind a home. A place where the walls close in, and I can't think straight because every emotion that pours out of my soul is vulnerable to be judged. What can I do here, but simply be alive? I cannot feel alive, simply I am just breathing and living. Save me from my mind, since even here I can't find a way out. Darkness from all corners of every word I write and every thought I think. Happiness now is just a memory that seems to have faded away into the darkest depths of my soul. Yet still there is a part of me that longs to be the person I truly am, beneath this mystical abyss that suffocates me alive.