i'm gonna start writing soon, i'm just gathering some more inspiration. hope you guys understand. love you, **.

hi, hello,
what's up people.
i'm back.
i missed you all.

I can't feel anything.
Terrible things are happening
but I can't feel anything.

No pain,
no sadness,
no happiness.

I'm just there staring blankly.
Feeling my numbness.

I'm smiling but it's just a ****** movement.
No emotion,
just a blank smile.

No tears came out from my eyes.
I don't know.

I need to find a way to get rid of this numbness.
I looked around and found a sharp blade.
I slowly looked at my wrist and said,
'Maybe this is the way.'
I slitted my wrist,
cutting in my skin,
my flesh,
my veins.

In a split seconds a gush of fresh blood came out from my wrist.
A stream of tears fall from my eyes.
'I succeed, i'm not numb anymore.'
I said to myself.
Slowly I close my eyes,
and darkness enveloped me.
'I'm gonna rest now.'
I said then gasp my last breath.

Let me walk you through inside a writer's mind.

Aren't you curious?

How can someone write like that?
How can someone have those sick emotions?
How can someone be so dramatic?
How can someone be that suicidal?
How can someone be so sad?

You know what?
Being able to write about those things is a privilege.
If I have no one to talk to,
if I have no one to vent all my sentiments,
poems are going to slap me with a pen and a paper.
And i'm all good.
Once i've let go of that burning pen,
the moment I read what I wrote into that ****** paper.
My diaphragm finally relaxed,
I can finally breathe.

And when a writer doesn't have any inspiration,
that soul must do all thy take to feel everything and anything in order to fill those pages, those ****** pages.

You must value every word you read inside a poem or any kind of literature.

Because you didn't know what emotional ride that living flesh took just to serve you those burning hot raw words.

But aren't you curious?
Don't you want to know what it took?
What it took to serve those emotions to you?

A writer...
Scream, screamed like a mad sicko.

A writer...
Cry, cried like a new born baby.

A writer...
Laugh, laughed like there's no tomorrow.

A writer...
Burn, burned in their own oil.

A writer...
Slit, slitted thy skin and...

A writer...
Cut, cutted thy flesh and...

A writer...
Bleed, bleed until there's no more left.

Bleed until that living soul can write something.

A writer...
Is empty.

A writer...
Is a lost soul who can't find it's way back.

A writer...
Is dead... inside.

Then, viola!

A burning hot literature is served.

And that, my friend, is what inside a writer's mind.

Before, i love writing bright poems.
Poems about nature,
poems about how nature resonates heaven.
Poems about how smile and laughter can light up the whole world.
Poems about dreams,
dreams that became fantasies.
Poems that are filled with happiness and rainbows and all that.

But,

that's all in the past.
A monster ate all those rainbows and happiness that are living inside my head.
The monster lived and stayed in my head.

The happy noises are all gone,
now i'm left with this silence.
The happy packages are all gone,
now i'm left with this emptiness.
The happy colors are all gone,
now i'm left with this bland dye.

Oh,
how I wish to bring back those happy noises,
how I wish to bring back those happy packages,
how I wish to bring back those happy colors.

Sad poems, they are my home now.
Bland,
sad,
silent,
empty, and all that.
Those things comforted me.
They're there to lessen this heavy package in my heart.

Sad poems, thank you for being my blanket when i'm cold.
Sad poems, thank you for being my pillow in those sleepless nights.
Sad poems, thank you for being my breath of fresh air, if that makes sense.

Poems, happy or sad,
thank you for being my companion.
Thank you for hearing all my sentiments.
Thank you for not judging me.
Thank you for being there.
Thank you.