I have to keep pushing.
Keep creating more and more to get the likes so I know that my poetry means something.
I have to be able to pull my soul onto paper with a pencil.
Let the paper be the night sky and my words the stars.
Let the words that I refuse to let roll off of my tongue flow through my pencil and into someone's mind.
How can I make my words meaningful? How do you make scribbles on a page powerful? How can I show that I scraped away at dirt and rocks with broken and bleeding nails to find the perfect words?
Can you tell my hands are scraped and stinging with a glorious pain from prying at the metal box in which I keep my heart?
Can you hear my lungs letting the ash crack away as they struggle to truly breathe for the first time?
My mouth, dry, cracked, and swollen from never speaking, soften as if words are nectar to it.
Can you feel my brain getting lighter as the stress of silence sweeps itself away?
Because I can.
I can feel every wrinkle of my brain finally getting exposed to the light of happiness.
I can feel every breath of sweet, sweet oxygen that my lungs have decided to let in after all these years.
I feel it as other people's words wash away the pain, little by little, and I wonder.
Can my words do that?