Stains

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

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s