Dear Self, The steps I take towards finding out who you are, Are a little shakey. I cannot figure out what it is that is dragging me to the depths of hell that I call, My thoughts. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I question when your soul would evacuate its home and soar through the sky. Self, you're so fragile, it tears me apart looking at you. Self, how can I save you? How is it that you're so numb to almost everything? How am I supposed to feel when you're so caught up in your own world to notice the one beneath your feet? Self, I am losing you and I can't figure out how to bring you back. Maybe this is how I become my real self; The unforgiving, Doesn't give a flying ****, Resting ***** face, Self. I think I'd like that, But then again, I think I'd rather stay true to who I really am, Than become a stereotypical woman that basis her life on the hate she perserved.
I think poems in the form of letters work best with me. I get to write what I want to, even though it's never enough