My yellow wooden weapon.
Location
You are more than just a
wall that over powers me with out stretched arms
and a blank stare.
No.
I write because you respond.
I turn to you with every fear
every vice
every emotion that cannot be expressed by a mere word.
You become my canvas to the mural of my life
compacted into a compisition book mixed with math notes.
You in return reverberate everything I say back in pen
letting me know that you are listening.
Note taken.
You whisper in my ear
"I am here"
and I swear I can feel your lips
sooth my aching skin.
Every bruise
tear
broken skin
at ease.
I write.
I let you know that
honestly I am still afraid of boys.
17 yet still haven't manifested a Bruce Wayne
willing to protect Gatham city that is my heart..
But seeing you say it assures me that it is okay.
Every now and again
I lie motionless
as if a fly penetrated by vangs
unable to express to you my vulgarity filled life.
Some may call it writers block.
But then on some days. . .
when the sun is bright
and the wind is stong enough to keep birds soaring
my weapon comes to hand.
Long yellow base
topped off with a lead bullet
piercing the pages that will set me free.
I write.
You keep me between the lines of
Sanity
Soldarity
and personal Sanctuary.
Each whisk of the pen against the surace
become like waves of the ocean
gracing the tips of my toes.
Beckoning.
I write.
And I know you won't ever give me
Adivise
Compasion
or even the slightest hint of sympathy,
You are simply at my side for ventilation become combustion.
I become Barrier Rock Falls as these words spew from my mouth.
And even though the world may give me the cold shoulder,
you become the winter pockets of a lover,
keeping my deepest core warm.
That is why I write.