Many pens have worn out after years of abusing them just because these hands of mine cant even seem to hold a gun and bend my pointy finger on the trigger.
Instead of me bleeding, these pens have bled for me. They resemble me so much that they’ve scattered bloods all over the paper that I write on. As much as I want to fill the whole paper with my wounded thoughts, it just never seemed to be enough. I needed thousands of pens to worn out on a single sheet of paper in order to feel satisfied with my writings.
I dedicate my free times on writing. Feeling free, heard, and seen. A single page of paper healed parts of me that I thought would bleed for eternity.
As much as I wanna disappear, my pens have always been there to find and look for me. I visualize as if they’re speaking to me, saying, "use me, I’ll hear you out"
For me, writing itself stops time and replaces the trigger that I’m about to pull with a pen. So, instead of exhausting my self out, the pen itself did.
The reason why I could never pull the trigger is because my mind have already exploded into billions of words that only my pens and paper have seen.
I’m afraid of death, actually no, I’d say death is afraid of me; so so afraid that it cant even bare a single touch on me.
