A plain page...
And the weight of my thoughts.
As I write...
I reveal myself...
and my misery.
These words are the battle I fight to exist...
To live...
And to grow.
As they reach your eyes...
The luxury of ignoring, hiding or running...
Disappears.
Once I have spilled myself onto the page...
It's no longer plain...
It's full of my pain.
It's full of my pain.
I am exposed...
It is real.
Words of truth from moments of agony...
And there is no going back...
Only moving forward.
These words roll around in my head...
And I must meet them...
If I choose to tackle my grief.
Obsessively I look back...
Scrutinizing what I have written...
Almost attempting to discriminate between fact and fiction.
Pulling back layers...
In an attempt to peer into my emotions...
From a rational place outside of myself.
They begin to separate from my psyche...
As I attempt to judge them as authentic...
Or as simply an invented paranoia.
These are hours spent analyzing...
What I have said, thought and felt...
And they read like a map.
They acknowledge where I have been...
But more importantly...
Where I intend to go.
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