Writer; invisible to the naked eye.

The best poetry stems from the most unwantedThe best songs are sung in discomfort A writer self harms to feel the depths and the adrenaline Danger is riskRisk is materialMaterial is noveltyNovelty is survival And for the writer The writer forces its forces into situationsKnowing exactly what is to take place A writer wants to play with mindsExplores what survival is and could beIn the case of thee the writer had rectified a move that led to the shades of purpleDrunk and cycling in the middle of the night It's an addiction to surrender to darknessIt helps grow a skin too strongA writer can be anywho Having any whyRealizing the truth has never been the writer's to tellA writer can be anywho having any why With many stories they have been told they teach themselves to control those aroundPut themselves in difficult situations Just like every now and then they leave their protagonists in the mud to drownA writer likes to see bloodFinds it exhilarating walking among the crowds and owning any identityWhile the writer is able to read their own 'I don't want to be here', the writer screams. I don't want to be here.While forcing the force to cope and drown in discomfort Survive it says If you survive you'll have served your life's purposeThe best songs are written in some form of bloodTears is a form of bloodSo we bleed every now and then In hopes we don't bleed in front of the crowdsA writer is a split personalityFed by the life of its ownUnspokenA writer is a playerWho likes to drown in their own game to prove the chance to survive A writer takes many forms, is built from ashes of the weaker skin it sheds along the wayAsh is the shedIn full silence the writer inhales darkness It's like cocaine that darkness The writer likes to feel the dirt of humans raw Decrypts insecurities while turning the whole world into an experimentDecrypting peopleThe writer dissociates to give life anewIt bleeds in new skinBefore tearing it apartTurning the blood into art Ceasing the caterpillar to its deathOnce ago the writer wanted to flyThey cut the wings and the writer was told to dare tryThe writer became a writer in that first forced dare Turned it into a playground Works of writer were victims The skin forced shed in darknessInvisible to the naked eyeThe writer knows a life lived is one stripped from comfortThe writer plays the many protagonists of unwritten storiesWrites those that qualify for the gift of lifeWalks in the crowds as them to decide if they are stories worth tellingWhile ceasing the caterpillars that never saw the light of dayA one night stand personality left to drown among many