The pen is what was needed.
Only dying leaves are growing from my damaged seedlings.
No longer have a place left to release shit. 
I didn’t learn my lessons, so God made me repeat them. 
I would’ve gave it all so she’d receive it. 
These are lost thoughts coming to light so you all can see em.
My pad’s my secrets’ keeper.
The pen plays needle.
On nights i need to stitch my mental’s loosened pieces.
This is deeper and indecent.
I took on the mantle of living every feeling.
Every page i write holds the hidden code for me receiving all my healing.
I’d be the heel in every story if the balance starts to even.