It's growing.

Bigger, nastier, uglier. And it's sore as hell.

I dived head first into a brown bottle, even had ice but, it still continued to swell.

Self medicating, personal antidotes,

Scriptures, recorded motivational speeches but, nothing in this world seemed to work.

And as it got bigger, it was draining everything out of me.

Abysmal insecurities and a depleted self esteem.

And one day, as I was slowly drawing to my wits end,

I ran to my room, opened my drawer, looking for a way to make my pain end.

Shuffling through scissors, paper clips, safety pins and, razor blades,

Nothing seemed sharp enough to take my pain away.

I turned to my right and for about 7 minutes, just stared at my book shelf.

In between 'Sula' and 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings', is where I found my help.

I ran for my life, tears cascading down my face,

Reaching for a pen as if it were a trophy for first place.

Snatching the nearest composition book that was within arms reach,

I never felt so free as when I let that pen bleed.

Uncontrollable sobs, I lost all control the moment the ballpoint met the paper.

The solace I found as navy blue ink became one with the page couldn't have been greater.

Every scribble and scratch, a new emotion unfurled.

Answers to questions I never knew I had, began to appear in my poetic world.

I let it bleed and the bandages on my heart began to unravel.

I let it bleed and defeated every demon in my mental battle.

I let it bleed, breaking the chains on my shackles.

I let it bleed until it couldn't bleed anymore.

The new birth of my poetry is what allowed me to see

That a pen and paper is what I needed to truly heal me.