I cannot imagine what you think of me as my pulse meets the paper and the ink spills across the moonlight.
I waged a war with false promises and wrote every letter down . Trying to cope , bathing in moonlight and staining my skin in mistakes.
I’m a private person , or maybe I am just too week, where papers holds my strength and my pen is my hallelujah .
I write from a internal beckoning, a raw and emotional grave. Where my spilled tears are mopped up with whiskey and my heart never gives up on anyone but me.
There a tree of bones out front my door , where skeletons hang and ghost gather to call out my name.
Yet I am not afraid to still stand on bending knees and bring my troubles to the sky.
Call me hopeful or call me home, I never truly found my place here. I built my life around those I refuse to call hopeless.
Picking up the bibles and shattering windows as I step into the light. My heart is dark but I promise you my intentions are pure .
So as you fall into my words and believe that my words are to sharp for brittle edges, they were forged in steel and promises , and my mouth still draws the words I love you.
One day the sun will be at my back and the warmth with rekindle sparks in a dying heart. I will never turn back so I am blinded by the light… For my future may hold some darkness but I have never said no to a fight~