Writing has always been my passion,
something I turn to when I wanted to figure out things in this world -- to feel, and to be felt.
When I ran out of things to do,
or even when I have so much to do and procrastinating stresses the shit out of me, and I feel the need to calm down --- to breathe in, and breathe out the words that lived in my heart.
Writing ---
writing has always been my comfort,
the kind of haven that my tired wings seek when its tired of exploring places --- the haven aside from your arms.
And I have been told,
I stitched the words correctly,
that I have been writing and somehow I connect the words to their breaking hearts.
They told me,
I have the potential to become a good writer.
Crazy, but you know me
I don't believe it.
Darling, you knew it,
since you've been gone in my arms,
since you let go of my hand,
I had nothing left in me but my pen
and a broken heart.
And since then I have been bleeding,
Since then I have been writing more and more --
Now I wonder,
if I am really fit to be called a writer,
or maybe,
maybe I was just that girl
that one girl you broke trying to find comfort in another haven after being left.