i have been told that my writing is too depressing. that i should keep it light and funny and talk about how roses are red, instead—i'm sorry if my mind isn't in the place that you'd like it to be. i am filled with storms, not rainbows. i am 4 am in the middle of winter, not a sunny day with sand stuck to my leg and the sun piercing down, turning my skin into a darker shade.
i do not write to ease your life, i write to save mine. demons live within my skin, i'm sorry if you're uncomfortable with me letting them out to play every now and again. this is my book, my life, my poetry, and these are the only moves my pen knows how to do. this isn't a ballet, this is a shakespearean tragedy. no lives are spared here, no lies are told. this is just life and i'm okay with the dark side of my mind.
we are nothing more than dust experiencing life momentarily before we return to where we belong. we are just a speck amongst an infinite galaxy with infinite lives which will all someday be forgotten. and i am no longer afraid of that truth. i am here to enjoy the randomness that has been provided to me. i don't need god to give me a path, i will find my own with grass so green it'll bring tears to your eyes. i have no destiny, but that won't stop me from chasing the one inside of my mind.
can't you see? storms lead to rainbows and dark nights lead to sunrises. there is no beauty without chaos. there is no gain without sacrifice. there is blood in the veins beneath my skin and occasionally that skin must be cut open and blood must be spilled onto the earth below. but life will spark once more from that tiny drop of blood in the soil.
i have been told that my writing is too depressing. but that’s fine, i write for souls like mine.