The reason why pens sometimes seem to fall silent,
Or paint brushes seem to splash nothingness on a blank paper,
Is not because the mind has run out of things to voice,
But because we’re afraid of the little pieces of us that might fall on the paper;
Pieces we want to keep glued to ourselves like they’re what our very skins are made of;
Pieces of us that if ever looked at or read about show themselves as
scars that were never able to bleed red.
And the ones that don’t seem aweary, don’t “seem” rational.
And when we finally gulp and dare to let some of it fall on the paper,
We stand back and look at those fallen pieces and cringe.
We deem them unworthy of being heard
And pick them back up and keep them shut in the dark of our closets or turn those colors towards the wall where they’d never see the light of the day.
But those are creations that heavens know should be out there for everyone to see.
For those are the pages on which the heart is wrung out most beautifully.
What once seemed like a kiss from misery has now turned into art.
Art; that speaks not to be spoken to, but to be understood.
Surely, it is strength to open the doors of a room filled to the roof with unspoken words and walk out drenching in them,
Pretending them to be presents of your imagination.
And using pain as inspiration to create art, is an art in itself.