I’m nice with a pen it comes from within my whole life I tried to pretend but it comes back again and again
I don’t know how to explain it but over the years I’ve maintained it and retained it and used it for my entertainment
I write love letters from the darkest place on Earth when they get opened the feeling is love and rebirth tell me your story and I can find your voice but to be honest you really don’t have a choice
When we talk I can feel your spirit it effects my vibe without me having to be near it I don’t hear words I see stanzas so when you read what I write it’s not that random
If I can do that off of a conversation than imagine what I carry from the ones that rely on me for their emancipation
I look at it as a gift and a curse I can articulate pain but it gets much worse a part of the hurt never releases from my soul the gift aspect however is I have books sold without doing what I was told

