Made Of Words.
Added 2022-03-25 04:09:38 +0000 UTCIn my mother's shirt and holding my father's pen,
that's how this endless story did once begin,
when pained by this strange body and its violence,
I wrote the demons into such stunned silence.
Every strange person I could always explain,
and in ink they could cause me no pain,
every conversation was dialogue to use later,
when to constraints of time I didn't have to cater.
For the joy of living pleasure twice and thrice,
I indulged the rabbit hole where I stored vice,
and what was meant to joy and art become,
in absolute compulsion had me come undone.
Yet one can never really undrown in this sea,
and with stories is made every inch of me,
on words I splutter, choke and must succumb,
as my own words fill up the entirety of my lungs.
Once my playground, now my prison this is,
where the blades I forged, I now must kiss,
but in imprisonment a fulfilled life I find I lead,
for when you choose to write, you choose to bleed.
