"never stop writing."
praise that feels so
backhanded and confusing.
"never stop writing."
a compliment only said
when it's too late
and those words
were needed earlier.
you see,
even if I wanted to,
I could never stop writing.
I could never put the pen
down and slam the laptop shut.
I've tried.
God, have I tried.
I have laid in bed for hours,
pushing the metaphors,
and hyperboles,
down my own throat to make sure
they aren't written out.
but they're like demons,
making their way out into the world
through me.
I cannot keep them from coming into light.
the words consume me.
it's the only possible way
for me
to save myself
and breathe.
you see,
at this point in my life,
writing is not a fun,
endearing hobby,
no.
I'm writing because it's the only
drug that allows me
to feel,
to be,
to live.
it's how I can take my
own personal hell
and turn it into at least
a little slice of heaven.
it's how I memorize the
traces of someones skin and
remember the pain
and beauty that come with it.
I'll never stop writing.
but unfortunately for some,
they'll never stop living.
that's the downfall of being a
writers muse, right?
you'll live forever on their
page.
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