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 | www.pain2poetry.com