It’s seeing beyond the window pane.
Out in the dark, and behind the stars
is where the hidden dreamers are.
Light touched our heads, and made us bright.
Opened our skulls, and let in the light.
Now we see the universe.
Among our peers, we pace our fears.
Keep our light hidden from their ears.
Our core is far too hot to touch.
We’re bitter-brained; we know too much.
Our hearts are soft, our minds are strong.
We’ve held this weight for far too long.
On our pages, our letters run.
The days are dark; we stole the sun.
A writer’s brain is harbored with pain.
We are broken picture frames.
We hold so much, and reflect so little.
Our glass is cracked, our bones are brittle.
Our skin is cold, our mornings are colder.
This emptiness is getting bolder.
We wrote about it in our books.
It fought with us, our readers shook.
We are warriors, we bleed our pride.
Our battlefields are kept inside.
Our hearts are silent just like the trees,
but we still say the prettiest things.
When we are trapped, our thoughts are free.
The days are black when we can’t see.
A writer’s brain is emotional drain.
Its melted feelings, discarded rain.
Our rivers are full, our vessels flood.
It turned our stable ground to mud.
Our toes are cold, our muscles ache.
Our hearts are far too fond to break.
We are beautiful, our thoughts are raw.
We left our coldness out to thaw.
Our hands are gentle, our faces are kind.
We have some of the most crippling minds.
Nature grew, and we did, too.
We let those rivers cleanse us through.
We are broken, but our words are whole.
The universe found a home in our soul.
A writer’s brain is hard to perceive,
this I very much believe.