Heart written

I’d write all my problems on a piece of paper but the fear of it haunting myself or it turning this family upside down even though it is already on the verge of falling into pieces itself. I’d bedazzle the hurt and the troubles one has to face but the thought of it ruining my reputation or the fear of changing how people viewed my smile. The acknowledgement of it being real or not, the life given by words itself and the soothing from writing, the joy and the fear all in a single piece. I’d run away from my problems with a bullet but the thought of straining the living with the dead ponders throughout. Is there even a God? Is there even hope if I haven’t written about it? Lately it seems as if the only white appears on the pieces of paper I scramble on and lately I’ve appreciated the company of self instead of ruining the mood of others.

I cry, I cry I admit it I cry, not because of whom I’ve become but because who they’ve become, I’ve grown to understand that they raised one not because of love but because life. That doesn’t even make any sense...

I cry, I tend to break down in tears not because I’m lonely but because I’ve come closer to the edge, should I jump or should I break just one more time?

Not the best writers out there, there’s no competition when we write. We write to free our hearts.