I haven't written in a while. I mean, yes; scraps of poetry, not formerly: "dear diary" not deeply introspectively not all my insecurities and all my worries and concerns and dreams, not future hopes and fears and longings not the things I hope to be avoid to be not secret thoughts inside of me not flaws and glories of the day not things that took my breath away not academic ponderings or aimless mindless wanderings no verbal chess, poetic press, no letters to my old address no emails nothing about *** or anything of interest not anything political or sentimental cynical not anything of any worth not anything that you deserve no all I've written is more lies as proof of my self-censorship for I read my words with your eyes, and type them with your fingertips, and I am too caught up in you, I cannot write me any more I cannot write the ugly truth your beauty's what I'm writing for now.