Maybe if I put my problems on paper they'll stay there.

And I'll never have to worry about them 

Sneaking through my ears,

Settling back into my thoughts,

Kicking off their muddy shoes and

Making themselves at home in the corner of my mind, 

Once again.

 

On these crinkled pages I write down my choking regrets, my heavy fears.

So that I don't have to admit my pain infront of my peers.

Maybe I need to put these words down

So that my mind can finally clear.

 

To empty out all of my worn out, tired out, 

definitely overused, definitely overanalyazied,

Not to mention my burned out, overworked

Thoughts

 

Maybe it's because I'm tired

Of enduring conversations

That are filled with overhwhelmed eyes

And mouths that don't know how to comfort

 

So instead I choose to take a pen in my hand 

And leak out my anxieties

And though my words are close to petty 

At least the page won't look at me with pity.

 

Words don't always make past my lips

Yet they leak their way through my fingertips.

Bit by bit, I can finally speak the words

That I don't know how to converse-

To another human being

 

Sure. 

That might mean I live through my words.

Let's be honest, though, that's another lie

I hide behind these words.

 

I write about the adventures I'm much too afriad to attend to.

My mind craves an expedition my body could never endure

Causing me to scribble down

The chances I'm too hesistant to take.

I write about the people I only wish I could become.

And the love I might never feel.

 

I need to call myself a poet, a writer, a lover of words and phrases. 

Because I would be a coward otherwise.

Conversation has failed me - this is it.

This pen, these words, they are my only outlet to tell my truth, my story.

 

I don't know how be brave.

I don't know how to say what I mean

I just know how to write.

 

Sure.

That might mean I live through my words.

Let's be honest, though

I have no other way

Of being brave.