The Page

Only on the page am i free. only on the page do I find liberty, the courage to be me. to be true. to be raw. to say it. to say the shame. to say the pain. to say the everyday me. or the me I long to be. to say the hidden beauty in simple things. to say the things i have no understanding of. I open the door on the darkness of my heart when I write my pen becomes a beacon of light pushing back clouds of confusion because the page doesn't judge. I come clean I come true i'm unfolded unknotted undone. blood and tears convert to ink – words are jewels excavated, set free from beneath my soul cavern. the page beckons to me, the page she sings me to her and I follow. I collapse on her with the burden of words from off my back and I unload. my refuge. She lets me burn her snow white face with the tip of my pen, the tip of my wings- she lets me rip through her with jagged confusion, shrapnel anger, the tip of my emptiness; she takes it all in and turns it into a doubled edged sword of beauty. you see, the page doesn't love me, the page doesn't hate me. she accepts me. she just wants me to be-

The page is my battleground, it's my fighting rink, it's my tomb, it's my new day,

it's where I fight, where I fall, where I lay, where I die,

and where I rise again.