...

Inevitably doing what's worse for me,
Listening to the voices of other's subconsciously.
Misleading my heart.
Convinced that these choices are mine,
Negligent to how they've been hacked by falsity in the human mind.
But writing soothes it all to feel much better,
Like I'm in the cold and these words are my sweater.

There's no other relief,
It's grief without these written briefs.
We interrupt your programmed way of thinking for these true messages,
they come out your soul to release you of your trespasses.
And I hope it doesn't hold them against me:
my many pretentious routes of living,
the selfish ways that I've been giving.
But when I press the keys my words have no brakes,
They test the page without delay,
without remorse and completely risque.

It's the thought of me, leaving me;
Manifesting it's own reality.
It's what no one sees, speaking loudly.
It's a surprise, but it's not a joke,
Though many look past it,
when life gets choppy they unknowingly use these words to float.

My words are my heart,
and so are yours.
If you don't ever let them leave,
you'll never know the love they can acheive.