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

Draw, admire

Draw, erase

Paint, hide

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

FREE