Eating does not fill me. When I try to sleep, I toss and turn. No need to brush my teeth when I won't go outside.
Stories are my nourishment. I drift off to dreamland in prose. My soul is cleansed with antonyms and synonyms, similes and metaphors.
Crying brings no freeing feeling. Laughing holds no joy. Friends will soon just leave me and take with them my heart.
I pour my tears into a song to convey all that I feel. I laugh along with Shakespeare as he inspires every play. All my friends are pencils because they're useful and won't leave. And if one happens to skip away, break or reach an end; aisle 4, below the staplers, I can always buy some more.