I write because voice cannot
Comprehend what silence has to offer.

Because an [empty] passion strung on a line of
Want, but not need is in equivalence
To love without you.
Leaving me empty and needing more.

I write to sympathize with reality and
Conjure up a way with words
That voice will one day understand because
It is still immature, drenched in its own opinion.

I write because sometimes I feel like I need
You more than I need me.

Like our hearts are made of metal
Covered in stone.
Hardened to surroundings and people but still
Rely on that magnetic pull that makes
Sure you aren’t away from me for too long.

I write because I wish I was like
Harold and his purple crayon.
Whatever I imagine becomes my reality.

I’d draw my feelings.
The ones in my dreams.
The ones that leak out onto whatever you see in me,
Without that prosthetic love.

I write because I try to resurrect the
Feelings you gave before,
But my body’s telling me to push you away
And my mind is saying that nothing is ok anymore.

Rescue me from the things I fear.
Drag me away from
Old things that don’t change.

And let me write so that when I love
Nothing is more important.

And let me write so that when I get tired
Nothing is there to catch me
But you and the things I fear.
I write because fear is my
Number one motivation.

Rescue me from the things I fear.
Drag me away from
Old things that don’t change.

And let me write so that
I can win any war thrown my way.

I’ll give up battles,
But love is a war that I save.