Anonymous
Why Do I Write? Because of my illness I will find something in nothing And in nothing, I will find a solace. I find an escape from the metal cacophony in my head. My depression bangs pots and pans so that I— They scrape against each other pushing and pulling; Waves push on my skull in pain that I don’t feel until it’s been ignored. These “feather” scrapes that turn into red fissures That blot with minuscule droplets of life. My fingers trace each wound So that I imbue passion into all that I do. For me, my depression moves my bloodied fingertips Into my kind of language where nothing rhymes. I write to soothe the spider that is my depression So it doesn’t weave its web to constrict my movements, Closing my throat and stealing the wind from my lungs. It sits there patiently waiting for victuals, While I write poetry.
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