The ink from my pen has stained my fingers however, it’s better than the tattoo of pain that was ingrained within my heart. I remember the day I first picked up my pen; like where do I start.

The only thing I could focus on was getting my thoughts out, permitting my brain to let out the judgements that turned to clouds.

I was fighting my thoughts.

It took me a while to realise that there is balance. Using my left hand to hold down the page I was writing on, my palm was stained with depression, anxiety, regret, loneliness and confusion. The other being my right hand; the hand I held my pen. On this side, was strength and courage.

Not much; but all I had.

-D. Edwards |



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