I'm afraid of the future, I'm afraid of the past.
I'm afraid that you don't think of me, I'm afraid that I'm on your mind.
I'm afraid that you like her, I'm afraid that you love me.
I'm afraid to be alone, I'm afraid of crowds.
I'm afraid to be happy, I'm afraid to be sad.
I'm afraid of you, I'm afraid of me.

This is what i deal with, all of my anxiety.

They thought she was a beauty queen
With a beautiful face
She was a pretty thing
But her heart was cold as space
With a glare that left a mark and sting
Her soul is a dark and empty place

Every day she lies
To herself and the world around her
She puts on makeup too dark for her bright eyes
She keeps her mouth closed for when it opens
Its a web of lies
You could say she's so good she's convinced herself
Every morning she wakes in a disguise
She's the kind of sick you can't ever fix
She's a bundle of lies
She's dead inside

For right now, it's just longing,
With a false sense of hope.
For right now, it's hoping the spring will be able to salvage what little winter left in us.

The grounds were still frozen when you passed,
So ashes you are now,
Into the air like heavy smoke,
with no stone to remember your name.
But we will.

For right now, it's trying to make the best out of the worst,
Parties at your house are unsettling,
8 pm without drunk karaoke,
No cowboys hats,
Just the echo of Mr. Johnny Cash.

For right now, it's pretending.
That loss hasn't made its way into our daily routine,
And memories haven't cluttered into every few thoughts.
Maybe we'll feel better in another six months,
Or not,
I don't really know.

The dark consumes me like the cold covers the night, the tears wash my blood as my blade only deepens the wound. The depression acts as a blanket when I need warmth. Suicide becomes a thought when I see no hope. My blade becomes a must to my problems. My belt becomes a nuce for my throat. My life becomes hell that I call home. Pain becomes the life I choose to live. The only thing keeping me alive is a friend. A very special friend that shows me pain identical to mine. So I choose to live in silence knowing others can feel my pain. I choose to live with her and one day we bwill show each others scars.... One day

To write, or not to write.

That is my question.
My question to myself.

Do I write and keep hurting myself with memories?
Or do I sit tight and hope for the best…
Do I write and risk making things worse?
Or do I stop fearing being further misunderstood…
Do I write about the things I’m at fault for?
Or do I write about the things I’m not…
Do I write about why I did the things I did?
Or do I write about why they did the things they did…
Do I write in an attempt to make amends?
Or do I write to finally end it all…

But then again…

Why would I write?
What would be the point?

Would it be to try ending things amicably?
Or to somehow try to stay friends…
Would it be to try explaining my point of view?
Or to somehow try understanding theirs…
Would it be to point out the things I was trying to avoid?
Or to point out how they've ignorantly walked us all into them…
Would it be to understand why they blame me for certain things?
Or to explain why I blame them for certain things…
Would it be to point out how and why I broke for so long?
Or would they just simply not even care…
Would it be to remind them how they too have been stuck in a rut before?
Or would they just be callous and say that it’s different…
Would it be to try understanding if I was used?
Or would I just end up realizing for how long…
Would it be to find answers for all of the unanswered questions?
Or would I just be left with even more questions than answers…
Would it be to convince myself they’re a decent person?
Or would it be to realize they’re a heartless animal…
Would it be to understand what traps I’ve pushed them into?
Or to write about the ones they’ve pushed both me and themselves into…
Would it be to explain the soul crushing dreams that have been vividly etched into my memory?
Or to explain the countless sleepless nights for months, drenched in cold sweat, shifting from bed to couch to floor in my own home...
Would it even be worth it at this point?
Or should I just realize there is no way to ever trust them again regardless of all of the above…

Would it be to try and write a concrete poem?
Or to forget the rhythm halfway through and just get my thoughts out…

To right, or not to right...

I guess I’ll just write about maybe writing…