There is a different version of me that leaks out,
dripping ink on these pages,
hollow and raw,
saying all my thoughts.
A flow of words that may have never left my head,
if it weren't for the pages that you have read.
The contrast of dark streaks of ink on the white paper,
an art that I have learned to love,
a coping mechanism,
I can't do enough.
I hate that I am only loved when you feel like it,
like I'm lovable but only when there is nothing better,
you miss me but you just miss having me as an option,
you wish I was there but only when nobody else is free.
I care too much.
Doesn't sound possible right?
It is,
It definitely is,
and you'd wonder how that would be a problem right?
I want to live,
I want to hear a million songs and dance in the rain,
I want to kiss and make love,
I want to see the world from every angle,
meet people that I will love and ones I won't,
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