Write more. You owe it to yourself. Though your words are scrunched and scrambled, they are yours.
They matter as much as the next.

It doesn’t have to sound pretty. Rhythm is lovely but you still suck at dancing. You could sing well before you smoked.
The dismal vapors calm your nerves – that mattered to you the most.

Not every poem is happy. Not every man will be like him; the focal point of your writing, the center page of your heart.
You’ll find relief in time when those feelings begin to thin. You’ll find interest in something that isn’t him.

Not every verse is sad. Stories of triumph do still exist. You once hated your mother but with age, learned it’s too heavy a burden and found your arms too weak for the lift.
Weaker than hers. Degraded and ignored, she only stayed strong.
Bless your soul you have changed before she is gone.

You’re a bit complex. Don’t forget; you’re also a mess. Just a heap of forlorn rotten roses, pink as your blush.
Why is it you are so determined to speak less?

The things you want to say choke you in your sleep, yet you only ever think. Maybe others notice. Maybe their mouths are dry.
A word, wine from your ribcage - let it be considered a drink.

Lungs blackened in tar and glitter scars, you’ve been tainted and dragged before. Tiny but growing. The leftover ash from a Phoenix’s final burst.
The past burns forevermore.

The person you are, and will become, must find a way to move on. To be a fiery bird again. Green eyes hazy but glowing.

You are not nothing.

You are not nothing.