blunt

i love writing but i'm scared to write, day and night, i think i might just pick up my pen but then a voice in my head says wait. the time isn't right so don't write just yet. everything i've written has turned to ash, a slash across my heart, a part of it burnt, the other numb to everything that's come to me. and so i wait. because i can't be brash, take another slash, or more ash.  they say words make things more beautiful but mine can only kill. it's a skill i will have learnt to withhold with age, when i'm at a stage to accept that every page doesn't need to have words. and it's absurd to me but i see the disastrous impact of what i write and it doesn't feel right to write anymore. so i wait.  i wait until i am sure that i won't be insecure of the place i hold in your life. i pause with a knife at my wrist, a millimeter away from a tryst with death but more importantly a means to not pick up my pen. a means for when i need to fight th...