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It's a battle inside,
I constant yelling and screaming;
One side fights yes and the other no,
And I find that I am lost in the break of it all.
I can't ever seem to physically show my hurt,
But in a way, writing suffices enough;
But to so many just scribbling words on a blank page is still keeping silent,
But to me, writing is how I scream and shout to the outside world.
Most never grasp my own articulate ideas,
But they seem entertained enough by my words;
Truly they don't know it's my inside coming out,
But they nod, cry, and laugh with with the things I have to say.
It was never my intention to actually become something worth while,
My talents were subjected to being small and unnoticeable;
Even now they aren't the best of the best,
But somehow they've become important to people I don't even know.
I feel jubilated to know that even a few among the many love my work,
But as well I feel scared, I just can't seem to make sense of my own words;
They come out of me like water from a pitcher,
But yet the cup is as hot as iron and the meaning is evaporated.
I can live daily without writing my heart out,
But any longer and I start to fade into oblivion;
I'm scared I'll lose what I think to be the most beautiful thing about me,
I have yet to learn that I am more than just words on a blank page.
I constant yelling and screaming;
One side fights yes and the other no,
And I find that I am lost in the break of it all.
I can't ever seem to physically show my hurt,
But in a way, writing suffices enough;
But to so many just scribbling words on a blank page is still keeping silent,
But to me, writing is how I scream and shout to the outside world.
Most never grasp my own articulate ideas,
But they seem entertained enough by my words;
Truly they don't know it's my inside coming out,
But they nod, cry, and laugh with with the things I have to say.
It was never my intention to actually become something worth while,
My talents were subjected to being small and unnoticeable;
Even now they aren't the best of the best,
But somehow they've become important to people I don't even know.
I feel jubilated to know that even a few among the many love my work,
But as well I feel scared, I just can't seem to make sense of my own words;
They come out of me like water from a pitcher,
But yet the cup is as hot as iron and the meaning is evaporated.
I can live daily without writing my heart out,
But any longer and I start to fade into oblivion;
I'm scared I'll lose what I think to be the most beautiful thing about me,
I have yet to learn that I am more than just words on a blank page.
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