I have found writing to be therapeutic when I have things I need
to say but don't know how to voice. One thing I've learned is that pain
shut in is a poison that kills, a wound that festers and slowly kills
you. I hate it when I open up and let the world see my vulnerability, I
feel like a city without walls encouraging plunder.
But whilst a
physician may not heal himself, a creative does so by creating. Thus I
will find solace in my words...... I have pain shut in that needs to
find release, worries that bog me down, memories that haunt me. I am a
troubled soul wandering aimlessly, my compass long lost, with only my
voices for companionship. I have yelled and I have whispered, I have professed and I have decreed, all of it has amounted to naught.
Why
can't I contain myself? Why? I feel like a hazard to myself, my arch
nemesis is my heart, always holding on to doves that want to fly, to
eagles meant for the sky. This is not a wail, no, neither is it a
lament, this is a dirge for that part of me that needs to die. My voices
agree, it is time my need for affection is laid to rest, or it will
paralyze the rest of me. So sing with me, sing in hedonistic harmony, my
deceitful heart is dead goodbye propensity.
PS: Alot of my posts are 'whiny'...blame the lemons life keeps handing me...
Kibali
