We don’t own ourselves. We don’t posses ourselves. But we don’t know that just yet. Instead, we belong to the people whom we have given pieces of ourselves to. We have trusted them with these fragile yet colorful pieces of ourselves, hoping they hold onto them for us and never let go. Never break it. Never lose it. Never destroy it. We expect, we hope, we pray they will safeguard our pieces. Nurture, comfort, and care for our pieces. Then one day, a person comes along and takes that piece of you and does everything you ever feared to it. That’s the day you realized it- you are not you, but rather the connections and interactions and markings and fittings of all the people who were ever bold enough to own a piece of you. And you thank that person. Because they make you realize your pieces should fucking belong to you and only you.
My writing is expressive and therapeutic. As human beings, we move forward from situations, people, and emotions; however, sometimes the pain and memories need to be reawakened to share in a creative way. In the hopes that the entire audience can relate and heal, the poet places his or her mind and heart in the most vulnerable state. If you over analyze, under value, misinterpret, or personalize the language, then that becomes the flaw of the reader.
“Take your breakfast with a pinch of salt to avoid bitterness the rest of the day.”
“Perhaps words from the mouth of a pen can explain the truth more than a cowardly tongue could ever do.” -S.K.
“Do not fear the past and possibilities; only fear a present that blindly and silently accepts the prejudice it rinses and repeats.”- S.K.
Some of the greatest love stories are merely stories. They never occur and never come to fruition and never achieve closure. They are simply a myriad of possibilities, what ifs, imagination, misinterpretations, and moments of being led on. These stories never reach their fullest potential or reality and are hidden away deep inside us in a box of pain- where hopefully with time, we forget. After all, there was nothing to remember.
“We are a compilation of all the different lives our own life intersected with, and no matter what, like stubborn paper clips we cannot detach ourselves from the people who helped craft us into who we are.” – S.K.
Write to heal, not to sell
Write to connect, when your mind is in utter disconnect
Write to evolve from the conflict, not to solve yourself
Write to invoke emotions, not provoke tension
Write for revenge against all those who burdened you with hurt
Write to commend all those who inspired you with hope
Write to burst free
Write to spread your essence and fly
Write every day
Write, because any day now, your words will die
Write, to fabricate the fiction of everything in your life which was a lie
Write, because every sign and symbol reaffirms what you already know
Writing is the only way to go
Write, because out there, someone is waiting for their soul to be awakened by the flow of your words
So write, my dear
Write, even if it is the most painful act you fear
Write, my dear
That is why he is so near
Watching over you, transparently trembling, because he sees every story, idea, emotion, spark, sentence, slip away with each earthly second
Write, my dear
Because it is becoming so painful to breathe without a release
Write, my dear
It is the only way you will be complete.
– S. K.