A Writer’s Woes and Sorrows Told

There was once a writer who thought themselves weak, a worthless wastrel of wasted intentions, a person of pitiful poetic pain and who hated their own reflection and what they world wanted of them, to waste and fade.

However this writer that still exists, found some companions with which they did share their pain, their hurts and bruises, they told of their sorrows their inner woes, even if they could not put them in simple words, in ideas that could truly be told, that one could hold and examine and see the problem and the answer right there, exactly what it was and where it could be.

These pains, these woes and sorrows they held, couldn’t be told in words like that, in ways simple and easy to hold, their language was cryptic and their message bleak, however in releasing that weight, that burden so dear, they found they no longer carried that horrible feeling, that dreaded fear, they breathe the air, no longer toxic yet not quite so clear, and more importantly yet, they could feel the water that leaked from their eyes, letting themselves cry, each time, for what was to them the very first time.


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