It’s so much easier speaking through ink. It’s like a whole part of me is caged, and it’s slowly healing through words. Letting people in is a challenge. I’m selective. So I just sit back and listen, and listen some more. I listen because you deserve to be heard. Not everyone has someone they can pour their mind and heart to; someone they can be real with. But that’s the thing, we all need to be heard. For so long, I’ve kept my words in a safe place that’s guarded by bricks. Over time, they’ve become more protected, and the bricks have built up until everything begins to overflow. Art is fucking special. Because all the shit I feel is poetry now. And you get to read it. I’m still learning. I’m still learning about me and ways to heal. Some days it hits me, and anxiety creeps in. Anxiety is my growth. I burn it with ink. Bare with me though. I’m expressing and I’m so real that it hurts. There’s so much more. More to all of us. And I just hope that you connect with what I’m writing, and heal too. It’s not meant to be easy, but it’s worth it. You’re worth it. I’m worth it.