I'm a writaholic, ahoy there! Watch me bear my scars,
Lick my wounds from invisible battles, that still mark just as hard.
As far as my eyes can see, words bombard my mind like illuminated walls of graffiti. Hieroglyphics from one’s own soul, I'm the Pied Piper of literature, taking your child like hearts away from ya. Your young souls now hostage, on a journey through worlds,
Weaving words into lines is my Lineage.
So many lines for all the ages. But I'm just showing of my age.
Like all the rings on trees did, these poems sometimes sabotage my dreams,
With every ink stain, can be a mistake made, if it’s not written on a page.
My lines give away parts of me, and that's okay. As you meet with the vulnerable and the brave.
I write my past pains, into pages, from pens fuelled with scars that have been bleeding for ages. Ink over spilled to kill the demons that become commentators, those thought traitors, running from traumas, but getting caught up on these mental escalators, so I lose my step.
But that’s just these ups and downs, that try to drown us with conversations from sinister clowns, that come to town to hunt me down. Because the circus is sadly no longer around. It’s pitched up a tent inside my head, instead entertaining crowds of the walking dead. Talking out loud but these demonic clowns have seasoned my life adding salt to the wounds and pepper to all my constant strife.
Writing both day and night learning skills and being inspired to be better. But I’ve been killing letters to get us through the storms that form these battles inside my head. Trying to become better read, but these dark walls painted black all around me, but I must be colour blind, because all I see is red.
I write like an addict, making myself sick by the words that I vomit or co-writ, hoping to create a piece that will stick in minds for some time that it won’t decay or die. But all we can do is try to create pieces that make you smile or move you to cry that’s why I write all the time, killing myself to find those perfect rhymes, that are buried somewhere deep inside.
Line up those shots for when we hit that full stop, but I don’t stop, words fall from my mind like a bleeding nose bleeds blood drops.
I’m a writaholic, with no holiday from it, words are my medicine and curse rolled into one, it’s ironic. What’s even more crazy is I don’t even use a pen tip to save me, there’s no ink flicks, or quills spilt, from all the work that goes into it.
I’m a writaholic that can’t quit! Writer’s block is the only time I’m dry or sober, but so far, it’s not over, I feel like I’ve got so many more poems inside my veins that are fighting, biting or clawing their way out of me, it’s insane. Pints of pain still to come, shots from spirits that have been and gone. People saying, I don’t have the bottle, but they got it wrong.
I write to tame the beast that lives in me, cathartic need my therapy, a way to express the mean in me I mean this is my truths, my journey my legacy.
Ink poor, Ideas rich, discovering poetry was the greatest gift. To stich words into worlds for all to see. I’m all about the poetry. Just like people go to the gym to gain, I’m gaining my strength through searching words and surfing pains. Tomorrow no doubt I'll be hung over the page, thinking of ways to wet your brains.