The written word is cruel, relentless, and sharp,
Carving into the corners of myself left abandoned,
Where poems went unread and tore my world apart.

Since leaving my home, I’ve begun to see
How a muttered truth, rehearsed yet sudden,
Can tear apart a house faster than my own heart can bleed.

Poetry is unbeknown to me…
With every day of my adulting,
I’ve allowed my ambitions to swallow my soul
And everything I had wanted to be.

My own lies strangle my body,
Smothering the fire within me,
As adult me trades wonder for approval
And forgets about the little girl’s dreams I keep.

She scrapes at the prison I’ve held her in.
Her voice, muffled under the weight of my sin,
I’ve twisted what I know of love that I receive
Into a shadow that crawls on my skin,
Gnawing away slowly at what’s left of me.

For that art which had once held me whole
Has been sitting on my shelves, growing mold.

Instead, I chased applause that never filled me,
As my brain claimed to care so vigorously
About the creativity I starved to feed.
I chose to proclaim a purpose I never believed.

Yet it took two years of neglect,
Dragging me away from the art that once cradled me
And pulling me from the dreams I clung to for home,
Until I woke up from that horrible nightmare
And finally brought myself back home.