Today I rip the pages from this book like the pieces of me from the past.
For fear of letting go.
Failures, fears. Insecurities amplified.
Pouring out from every orifice of my being.
Overflowing from my inner self.
Currently, unable to express the words.
That will enable me to let go of old wounds.
So I retreat to a place of solitude.
I resort to a way,
Without spoken words.
And this, is why I write.
Fill page after page with endless babble,
Blurs of ink.
To attempt to let go.
By letting out.
By feeling free.