The words that bleed from my fingertips

She asks me, why I don’t write about happy things
She says, my sadness and heartbreak is beautifully written,
but I should consider writing poems that do not reflect such sensitive, tragedy. 
As to not affect the people listening
as to infest them with happy, with distraction,
without truth.
And with that,
every piece I have ever written weeps
to be appreciated as a work of art.
Whether people can understand it or not.
I write from experience, I write so I can cultivate my pain into productivity and meaning
I do not care if it is difficult for the masses to find relativity in my work, which often regards honest topics such as cancer, rape, death, depression, suicide, stress, heartbreak, romance, lust and passion. 


These poems are words that grew from
my heart.
When released, they are like tears after a hard day, aching to be dispelled. 
And if these words cannot be honored as beneficial to others,
                         At least it is my self love that courageously pricks the bubble of pain living in my brain,
At least I am fearless
to drip all of my honesty into a piece which reflects what it was like for me to be alive.
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