"Write," people say.
"It'll help with the pain."
But what if every time I pick up a pencil
I only go more insane?

I stay in my depression.
I can't say I'm brave.
I'm stuck on this merry-go- round
and I no longer want to play.

It doesn't make me stronger.
It only makes me sadder.
If this goes on any longer
I know I will decay.

Writing is a reminder
of where and how I went wrong.
It reminds me of the regrets,
I'm hearing the same old song.

So when people tell me to write
I want to sit and scream.
All I ever wanted was
to leave this dreadful dream.

so many grand plans,
laid out in perfect detail.
life is sobering.

Muffled sobbing.
The puddle of tears quickly forms into an ocean.
Carrying you away.
Isolating you from me.
You scream when I try to come your way.
When I try to comfort you.
So here I lay in my bed.
Wishing that your sadness will soon wash away.

I don't know how to stop
the pain of losing you
to someone you think
is better then me