Crimes Against A Soul

Time goes and I sit still. I sit in the nothing. In the emptiness of productivity. But that needs to change. I need to change not into something new but into what I am. Reveal my true form. Reveal my true self. To the world. To myself. It is a battle of wants and nots. I rather do something else than what I must. But guess what? What I want is what I must do. There is no longer a question or a doubt. I am a writer. Not the greatest but I am. I am one with the words that flow through my mind and empty through my pen and into paper. Sometimes they’re too quick I can’t even reach for the pen and I type instead. My fingers flying through the keyboard like I’m mad. And I might be mad. Crazy beyond repair. I must be out of my mind to think I could live without the pleasure of seeing my words written down and in the world. Almost like taking a picture of my mind. A black and white copy of my brain. 
So what am I to do now? 

Just write. 

Write poetry.

Write my thoughts. 

Write my book. 

And right my wrongs. My crimes against my soul. For I have neglected this passion enough. 

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