during the dark days
when i never wanted to see another person
the paper was there for me.
blue lines and white space,
emptiness and yet everything.
i couldn’t help but put pen to paper.
and if you look back on my loose-leaf from that time
you’ll find that there are neatly raised indents on the back,
loopy cursive leaving its legacy.
back then i could not write for the sake of writing,
my prose endlessly addressed to the people i loved.
i found a strange sort of comfort in knowing they would never be found.
and they were angry messages,
lovesick,
lovelorn.
my epistolary jar tells the tales of a tragic love and a star-crossed one,
stages of knowing,
stages of heartbreak.
none of my love stories end the same way,
but i can tell you for sure that they never end well.
i have notebooks filled with stupid ideas,
things that soared in my head but never made it off the ground.
from time to time
i feel bad
for all the people i have made suffer
under those messy stories
and that twisted handwriting.
i sift through my musings
among those i call home,
we all laugh at my words that once held my pain.
i unfold my letters and
for a second feel sorry for that heartbroken girl.
i shuffle them away in a flurry of shame.
writing
is more than pen on paper
or clacking on a keyboard
or even the wild art form that a true poet would say it is.
writing is
a little piece of your soul
that you give away
in hopes that someone else will have the puzzle piece to complete it.
Points: 480
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