Loud.

Sometimes the words just come spilling out. I can’t stop them from needing a place to stay.
Sometimes this pen is the only place I can stay sane.
I write like it’s my dying breath. Like this is the only thing I have left.
Sometimes the words aren’t enough and need to melt into a song.
Pull on the chords, tweak a few strums, stay bold in the cadence of the drums.
In my head a symphony unfolds. Trapped in the knowledge that I do not hold. Melodies pulling at my brain, spinning around, stealing ideas from words rhyming with ‘rain’.
The words keep spilling and I can’t keep them at bay. They own me. They are everything I can’t say.
Sometimes the words come spilling out of my untrained mouth.
Sometimes, when I am quiet they are loud.

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