Just…

---

Whenever my pen touches
The leaves of my notebook
I write.
Unstoppably. Unendingly.

I don’t suppose I’m a writer
For my words keep trailing off
Of my head.
My thoughts, unfiltered.
My heart, crumbled.

But,

We are not writers, are we?
We are imposters
Faking to be writers
We are thieves of moments.
Moments that should have been erased.
Hypes that must’ve been removed.

But,

We write.
With our bleeding fingers,
Into the walls,
Onto the papers,
We keep raining the letters.