"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
~Hemingway
Like bleeding a wound, writing soothes my tumultuous soul.
Is that why I feel over inflated? Have I let this soul fester? Restraining my tounge, keeping the peace. Working in vain to quiet the swell in the depths of my mind. Showing forth greater love, sitting as a safe haven for toxicity. Once I had a solid spine, once my wit was a sharpened sword, laying in wait for whatever beast strode my way. Now the bloat, and slowness of my pace have overtaken the wolf I once was.
Paint under my nails, hands riddled with cuts and flowing with blood, words spewing like green vomit from the possessed, I will claw my way Back To Me.
It costs to much to be anyone else.
