Give Me Love

It isn't a book.

People ask me where I find the time to do all of this. 

And the thing is, 

I never knew. 

I just did it. 

Was it anger?

Was it the repression that I couldn't express?

Maybe.

Because I realised the weeks that are filled with colour,

were filled with such frustration. 

Such pain. 

And I didn't have anything to pour myself into.

So I bled ink onto this.

The thin, delicate flesh that is the replica of my thoughts. 

I didn't find time to do this,

because I never need to.

I didn't find time to do this,

because time found its way,

to my fingers.

To my pens and markers.

There was never a need to find time,

because the book became a need.

The book,

kept me sane.