Grief is my muse. Which is kind of unfortunate.
Grey skies rain down poems and I open my mouth to swallow their impossible possibilities.
Dreams lost and hearts broken and people abandoned weave my stories and create a cocoon for me to cuddle inside, waiting for the dreaded Uncertain to arrive.
I guess it's because those things carry a profound emotion that I can communicate only through symbols that take the place of my blinking cursor.
So the saddest story in the world is when I see the blink-blink-blink and my screen stays white.
Because I find no beauty in an empty heart.
An empty airport is full of ghosts and echoes and countless scuff marks.
An empty book is full of potential and future mistakes and limitless hope.
An empty heart is empty.
But when I pour out my grief my words fall along with it.
Is this why there are so many tortured artists?
How come joy remains silent?
Pain demands to be felt and grief demands to be heard.
I traded my words for happiness.
I don't regret that choice, but I miss the sound of heartbreak.