I am a writer, and with each movement of my hand I am caressing the walls of my soul to see where the cracks are and which pieces are coming loose

I let the tip of my pen glide through the darkness to make way for the light

So you can see into the black that has tainted the colour spectrum of my mind

With each new word I chisel away at my heart and the dust that falls is what I present to you

This blank page is filled with nothing more than screams morphed into ink

This image I’m painting in your mind’s eye is nothing more than a rippled reflection of what sleeps behind mine; the emotions I invoke are nothing more than wishes of my feelings, which are broken

To be healed through an understanding of your perception of my twisted reality

What I present to you isn’t words or sentences; it’s not even a poem

It’s comfort for when pain finds you and you feel alone; know that I’m there too

It’s an outline for the way back when darkness has dragged you in too deep

Grab a hold of my sentences to find your way back

Use my syllables to nourish yourself when life has taken everything you need

When you hear the steps of depression creep in your hallway

Use my life as an alarm to scare him away

Let my creativity show you what my voice is unable to tell you

Invite all the words in this piece and throw a farewell party for sadness

I want – no, I need to help you

If my art isn’t making the world better, I don’t deserve the title of poet

If you can’t relate to my pieces, I can’t don the name author

If you can’t see me in what I write, I have failed as a writer

My life is the frame

My love is the canvas

My soul is the ink

My heart is the brush

My pain is the inspiration

My everything is the result

I give myself to you through my art