Not to get props. Not to get fame. Not to make hot stories made to entertain. I write as i think of thoughts on the brink of breaking out my head beginning to leave me. Like dreams that are seen in real life. A scene of seeing what it is in me that makes me do what i do to be free. Instead of brewing on things in my head, I'm learning doing things like writing instead.
My heart. The part that i'm missing that keeps me apart from who's listening. I haven't felt real emotion since the day the "roller coaster" flew into the ocean. It came from a suicide. From that day forward my emotions chose to hide. Something replaced my heart with dark parts that "rip people apart", tossing them aside. I don't like knowing my compassion has crumbled. I just might go in with actions that fumble. I thought that being humble would bring my feelings back. Now I feel the rumble of feining for things i use to "attack".
