When was the last time you write?

When your hand starts to bleed from its dark caresses, when your
eyes flutter slowly hypnotizes with darkness? When was the last time you write? When you explored
your soul from its deepest part of the ocean, when the sun rises and suddenly the flowers blooms in
your mind? When was the last time you write? When echo seems like a forbidden word because of the
buildings it shattered, when your mind trembles yelling write me down write me down, before the ashes
collects themselves in your soul, when all but fails, why did you stop? Do I no longer satisfy your soul?
Do the words you emit leaves scars for days felt like a burden, does the reality you so long want to
escape became now your cruel fantasy?

Why did you start? Because the wind inspires me to flow, to live as if I am no control of the world and
how it spins, because people who left, leaves big impact on this shattered heart that I can only translate
them into monsters, and trees but more importantly wisdom. I did not stopped writing, it has always
been in my mind, it has always been my greatest pleasure to hold a pen, to vomit words across it. But I
stopped being a writer, I stopped being an artist, I no longer feel greed flowing through my veins, of how
mastery is a craft I would not excel at. I stopped being a writer, but I did not stopped writing. For my
greatest pain ends with a pen, and my greatest happiness comes from a page that death falls upon.