I have always been a writer; to myself.
Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.
I was mad, even depressed.
I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.
You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?
I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.
It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.
I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.
I write hoping that one day
it could reach someone in need.
Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.
I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown
and moved on
from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.
I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.
I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.