Writing your madness down, so that you can then become sane again.

Writing your madness down, so that you can then become sane again.

Scribbles on the yellowed paper, liquid darkness, inky madness.

Your heart leaking onto the pages like ink,

leaving through the cracks in your soul,

the chasms that let the light in and the darkness out.

Imprint your bloody hands onto the scribbles of poetry & excerpts

of stories you wrote while tears streamed down,

down

down

down,

down.

Leaving the jet-black mascara smeared on your face, creating the imperfections that make you whole, covering the scars that you earned, every time a lie left your mouth.

Everywhere you look, you leave your scattered feelings & unfinished thoughts.

You leave them lingering on the faces of the people you left behind.

You leave them running from the tears of the people you hurt.

You leave them drowning in the darkness that you shed

and left behind as you walked away.

Where else to run but the old scraps of paper that people leave

lying around the chaotic world, when can we be satisfied but

when our hands are stained with the inky blackness seeping from our souls,

when our head is bent low over the page.

It is the only way, dancing under the light of a dusty streetlamp in the dead of night,

clutching the scraps of paper and old books, letting the words take away the darkness

for at least one more moment.

It is the only way to sew the world together again, to sew ourselves again.

Word by word.

Sentence by sentence.

Line by line.

World by world.

It is the only way that we can look at ourselves in the mirror and see an angel and not a demon.

Do you understand now?

Will you look through my outer layer of happiness and will you try to see the pain I hide beneath?

Can you try to see the madness that overtakes me on the days that I feel so tired that I don’t know if I can go on anymore?

Can you understand now?

Will you try, for one moment, to understand why I write the madness down on paper, so I can once again be sane?