Published pain turned into power.

When my ink went dry,

I pulled the blood from my veins,

and used it to write out every pitiful paragraph.

My pain turned palpable,

and I manipulate it,

twisting and tearing it,

until it makes a book of pretty words,

with poison in the pages.

If I am not an author,

I am nothing.

Left to my demons,

The voices In my mind.

I’ll make the stories,

I’ll pitch the poems,

I’ll tell the tale,

Of the hauntings in my head.

If I don’t let it out,

All of this pain,

Would be for nothing,

It would be pointless.

I can turn my trauma into one thing,

And that is a story,

Full of broken characters,

broken characters like me.