The scars on my body show I have stories to tell, but the words just won’t pour the same like crimson color on pale freckled skin.
The flowing ink of a pen’s rescue has not been the same life preserve as a metallic edge and instant relief.
The pain of words flowing like my childhood stream hasn’t compared to physical release and instant numbing.
I wish I had more to put forth in a healthier way, but I’ll let the writer’s block take it’s turn and revert to old methods of self harm.
Heart on a Canvas 