If I were to push this pen
Would it be considered a sin
Is it a sin for me to force forth the bubbling curiosity of my life,
Onto these pages?
As if what I think is for everyone to know?
What am I to do when I begin to question myself?
Some part of me wishes for the sharing of my experience.
To just help people become a part of what I know,
Without having to feel it for themselves.
Something they can relate to,
Without experiencing the pain of.
Not that all of this is pain,
There is joy in everything I do.
Still,
That is why I share myself.
Opening up old wounds through my writing,
Until my pen bleeds upon this page.
Forming words of pure and open angst, rage and passion.
Somehow I have lost myself in my work though,
Stopped writing for myself,
Purely become a performer for the entertainment,
Excitement,
Sexual pleasure or sturdy shoulder,
Of those I love.
Love,
Means many things to many people.
As I sit in a town that expects marriage at a young age.
A town oriented around a religious belief which values honesty.
Sensing this foreboding quiet of forgotten honesty,
My bones are chilled and hairs stand on end.
They value something they do not push forth,
At least not with the full passion and providence of my expectations.
Truth takes no prisoners,
Harbors no passages of falsehood,
It is pure, rough, like giant boulders of barely cooling magma.
Burning with such a ferocity and heat,
But a beauty all its own.
I am drawn to its flame like bugs to a light.
Contemplate the depth of tenacity and full disclosure,
The kind that breaks passages,
Forms caverns,
Opens your mind to truth.
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