The ink...

The fear, anger, disappointment and anguish one keeps locked away pour out onto the paper. The ink becomes the soul. It is the blood, sweat, hopes and dreams of the poet. It’s exactly how that person is feeling at that exact moment. You cannot justify it nor attempt to understand the thoughts racing through one’s mind at that very moment when the pen hits the paper. It’s pointless to try. It’s in the unrestrained and un-premeditated moments that one can truly release emotion. It’s laughing and weeping all together molded as one. Imaginary walls collapse and the soul is free; if only for a brief moment.

It’s the broken-ness in one’s soul that draws the greatness to the words. I believe broken-ness is beauty. Those who live life with perfect, scarless porcelain skin don’t truly live. The scars prove that you have lived and have taken risks. Dont be ashamed of the scars and band-aids on your heart; they are proof that you exist and that you were…