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.

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