The lines we write define us

They are lines that hold more than words can tell

And more than mouths can read

We write and hope to be misunderstood

For those who get us break us

Those who get us uncover the masks that we wear

The masks we choose to wear

Protectively, cowardly, and eternally

In short, writing is our mirror, our mask

It is what we are, and what we pretend to be

I had an ocean of tears

Locked within

And the only way for freedom

Was to cry

I had a world of

Headaches

Sleepless nights waiting

For me to hurt

For years and years they

Waited, waited

For a spark of

Him, a memory

And when I though

I had filled my room

With tears, they

Started leaking out my door.

I can cry

I can hurt

I can write

I am back

I'm back and I'm weaker,

I'm back and I'm hurt

I'm back but I feel

I'm back but I love

I may love a concept

I may love a man

I may love my pain

And I may love them all

Dearest reader may I say

How grateful I am

For you've been waiting for me

And here I am, and here's my rain.

Untold stories are the most anticipated of all

Until the moment they're through.

Then they reach a brick wall

And hope to find a clue.

They either stop or pass,

Through bricks made of glass.

And the only fact that's known

'S the wall is solid as stone.

And if they fail the challenge,

That many a story surpassed,

they blame it on the damage,

Our storyteller had cast.

And the storyteller is dead,

And that failed tale's our thread,

To start a new tale,

That breaks our best scale.

And once a man succeeds

To write a worthy piece,

They scorn all his deeds,

and bring him to his knees.

And then our man resorts

In a bower of some sorts,

And we hear them people repeat,

Stamp them with your feet.