Dear Writer

How are diamonds made? Heat to about 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit and squeeze under pressure of 725,000 pounds per square inch. Through the heat and pressure of life, you became a diamond.

Dear writer,

I’m sorry for what you’ve been through -

the times you reached for a rose and it turned blue,

when you prayed to the stars but they disappeared

and left you in the dark, lonely and teared.

I’m sorry for the people born with scales  -

wearing their coats of judgment, swinging their tails,

knocking you down over the simplest things,

blowing out fire and ripping your wings.

I’m sorry for the situations that made you bleed -

and wish yourself away to finally feel freed,

in the midnight hours when everyone’s asleep,

but you lose the minutes, your mind sinking deep.

I’m sorry for the trauma inside of your head -

that keeps you tossing in the creak of your bed,

when counting sheep becomes counting scars

and the reasons you’re trapped behind these bars.

I’m sorry for the loneliness that will never go -

no matter the company, you’re a flower in the snow,

waiting for others to stand close by and bloom,

but you freeze in the silence and echoing gloom.

I’m sorry for the insecurities that torment your mind -

a compliment in the mirror seems hard to find,

like a needle in a haystack thousand miles tall,

making you doubt there’s much to praise at all.

I'm sorry you went through the ugly and insane,

but you make such beautiful art with the ink of your pain.