I want to write till my pen hurts
I want to write all my troubles away
Does knowing your past fix everything?
Can’t I even have a measure of success with my thoughts and feelings up in each other’s faces?
Do my words show my confusion?
Can EVERYTHING be fixed?
Music is my therapy
Words are my counsel
Life is my sketch pad
Imperfection isn’t so bad
I keep wanting to throw myself on the ground
In hope that it will open up into an abyss where I can drop as I start to fly
And be free