I avoided as much and tried so hard to not touch on writer’s wounds.
Not to talk about their bleeding souls and how their overthinking has caused so much damage on their inside.
About how so many of them exist dead alive because no words could fit to express how deep they’re cut.
How wonderfully they play with words and turn their pens their companion because that way they feel like someone is listening or Atleast someone gets it as it is.
Then writers balm their wounds with ink and buttress those emotions on paper to atleast feel alive. At times they exist by their own punchline, pour it all down the pen.
Even the best selling novels are authored behind bars or by reformed personalities.
Every writer has a story they don’t want to read out loud because they’ve cringed and are fighting their demons.
They win with pens and calm down as the ink drowns down the paper.
This people have a way of turning sadness and depression into poetry and captivating articles because they’ve been compressed abit more than abit in imagination than in reality.
A writer never cries:because their tears should be seen in their work not their face.
This are strong people.
This are dangerous people when depressed, because they can easily destroy everything around them but instead they destroy pens