2-24-16
Destructive hands-
hands that are purple, like the violets,
but they're withering away with the cold.

I tell myself these are delicate hands.
Violets are delicate, aren't they?

You see, everything is purple nowadays,
and I'm not sure what that shade is supposed to mean, just yet.

I recognize I'm destructive,
a monster,
a fucking car crash.

Maybe these hands aren't delicate.
Delicacy doesn't lie within the flames at my fingertips.

I'm trying so hard not to burn you,
because burns aren't that pretty, love.
My hands should feel cold as they dance so closely to yours,
and it feels foreign to have them be so hot.

The pieces click into place, soon, though,
and through this haze of sleep deprivation,
I understand it all-
I'm destructive when the very thing I'm trying not to burn actually matters.

And baby, I know you're not fireproof.
- (m.m)

You know, I hate being told "you should be a writer. That's really good!" Because my only response is, "I am a writer. I don't need a stage to do this or a New York Times Bestseller or whatever." I'm a lyricist, a poet, an author- a creative writer in different aspects, and I'm doing it. All day, every day. I'm living my dreams. I don't need to be famous for it to count. Because I know, my love and dependency upon this wouldn't change if the whole world knew what I was doing. It's not about being famous, that's not my goal as a writer, my goal is to affect people. And yes, I'd like to stand on a stage and let the world know about my writing, I'd like to let this take me somewhere, but I know I'll be happy just writing for the rest of my life. That's good enough for me. So don't try to tell me I should become a writer, because I already am one, and I don't need to wait to acquire that name. It's a part of who I am, attached to my limbs somewhere, deeply connected to me- down to my bone marrow and blood cells.