I write because it’s cathartic for me.
I put words to secrets I’ll never get to say.
The lonely artist screams inside of me.
I bleed nocturne, composing late night feelings,
Probe my victim space to unload these burdens.
My fingertips gently stroke the vile trigger,
As moon sickness consumes the midnight entity.
I chase little earthquakes.
Capture stars caught on fire.
Weave a constellation of errors in a cosmic landscape.
I’m not like the rest of them.