Need You Now

I've had a bad day at work. I'm tired. The anxiety is overwhelming. She turns away and sleeps. She doesn't spring up and comfort me like you used to. She doesn't hold my face and look into my eyes and say it'll be okay. She doesn't give me her arms to loose myself into. She doesn't give me her lap to rest my head on. She doesn't give me her love like you did. When I told you she's nothing like you, I meant it.

Sadness Isn't Beautiful But It Can Be Used Beautifully

Some of us are born writers...some of us become it, in hopes of giving someone hope...or becoming it for somebody. In hopes of, somehow giving words to their feelings. In hopes of finding someone who understands it, just so they know they're not alone. In hopes that someday someone will read between the lines and discover everything you've been trying to hide. Some of us aren't even poets, some of us are just sad, looking for something to desperately hold on to.  They use pieces of their broken hearts and memories of their shattered dreams and moments of their incompletely complete tales, in their rhymes. Beautiful pieces standing on a broken ground, which no one notices...because sadness is ugly, sadness is unwanted but the outcome of it can be breathtakingly beautiful, pure and relatable. Sadness isn't beautiful. Ask someone who has lost something dear. They'd tell you. They'd tell you there's nothing poetic about having your heart broken. Its sad. Its terrible. You need to fight. And this is how some people do it. Trying to beautify the ugly phase of their existence. The only phase you loved and hated something so fiercely. Its sad, isn't it, that someone can hurt you so much that you have to write about it? And the greatest irony is that they still wouldn't get it. Your rhymes can spell their names and your story can paint their face and they'd still be oblivious. They wouldn't know. They won't know about your diary that has stains of your tears when you created that rhyme about them. They wouldn't know all the crossed out lines and the little hearts you doodled all over the page. They wouldn't know how your hands shivered and the writing was almost unrecognizable, except that it was about them...so you'd never forget what you wrote. They won't know how you spend hours staring at their picture trying to create a rhyme as beautiful as them. They wouldn't know how you struggled to describe how that angelic face could create such a damage. They wouldn't know how you stayed up all night crying just to erase it all. They will never get your words. They will never understand your rhymes, cause if they did you wouldn't be here scribbling words trying to weave it in some way that they'd understand...you wouldn't be a writer. Write love, write. Let your pen bleed love. Maybe someday, years from now you'll be able to see the beauty in your writings without feeling the pain. Maybe someday this sadness will just be a faded memory. Sadness isn't beautiful...but souls like yours make it.