Isn’t it sad that sadness inspires heart aching rhymes? That hurt has made my mind explode? That I write more when I need a story to be told?
I’m dully aware that my vehemence is easier to thread through broken needles to patch together a jagged thought than it is to find a pen filled with ink.
I’ve noticed broken strings make the melody more full, more relatable, more sinfully whole. When I should just pick up the instrument, play it, and go.
But mournful sounds deeper than joy. Tattered wings, frayed edges, and worn out soles always make for a more interesting story than the ones we always know.
I’m happier now than I thought I could be and this pitted road is more unforgiving than I want it to be.
But I’m wearing a very rough layer and the tears have long dried. I’m worn for the wear and stronger than when you found me. I’m better than anything you could have had of what I used to be.