Words

My source of inspiration differs between my daily life and my writing. My smiling daughter, my bright future, my dreams and my goals are what get me through my hellish days at work, listening to my boss drone on about nonsense, and dealing with my daughter's father who was once my beloved man, but is no longer. They're what keep me on my path toward success and happiness rather than lingering through a dark forest.

Writing, on the other hand, comes from a different source, releasing itself elsewhere from within me. My love is a beautiful writer. His work, his words, inspire me to release my thoughts and emotions as they are guided through my fingertips, crawl through the pen, and melt onto the paper. When I borrow his eyes, I see my true ability to free myself from myself, into the paper, and out of my soul.

Though he allures me with each word he writes, his inspiring me is not what creates what you see of mine. My own writing creeps through a place buried deep within my soul, a place absent of light, a place of solitude.

Words are trapped inside my heart, pushing against my chest, feeling as if I can't breathe. My thoughts keep them hidden inside of me, because my words aren't good enough for the paper, or even for me. Screaming for freedom, unable to breathe, drowning deep in my soul, they'll hopefully, one day, be set free.