Of late, I've torn out papers and deleted drafts of words that are meant to come out as poetic and soulful but always dessiminate gloom and sound too repulsive.
These words that used to quench the flaming pines of my heart, appear now in spears and arrows driving through other's heart.
So I sit in my corner bottled up in my feelings hoping the breezes of care around me will whisper love and tenderness.
But all I hear is the chants and drums of loneliness surrounding me.
So I pick my pen and my paper, my weapons, trying to fiend them off by pouring my heart out and relieving my self of this war.
And yet, these words come out with ugliness and with so much macabre that I'm forced to rip them out leaving shreds of what should have mended hearts. And so, to my dear ones, who await the potions of my words to drown your misery and wield your shields. I'm not holding out on you out of vileness. My demons have taken my weapons and I shield them from you out of care and as my last act of love for you. And this is my last words for you until I take back what has always been mine.
Until then, wherever you are, pray for me.
U