Sometimes I write and I write and I write.
For seconds, minutes, hours on end
And then I stop and look back over what I wrote.

"What the hell? Why am I so sad?"
I ask myself daily

I think about taking my mom's advice: writing a list of things I am grateful and thankful until I'm happy
Then maybe that will make me write happier

So I do that
Yet the guilt I feel for having all I have sets in and makes it worse than before

And I write and I write and I write
And it's still sad and depressing

I think about taking my dad's advice: go exercise, do things that make me happy until I'm happy
Then maybe that will make me write happier

So I do that
Yet the sorrow settles in from the past and doing these same activities when I was happier

And I write and I write and I write
And it's still sad and depressing

But you know what?
**** it all.
Because maybe writing sad is what makes me happy
Maybe it gets all the rage, sad, depression, anxiety, fear, and guilt out of my system so I no longer have to hold everything in
Like a bottle that needs to explode but has no outlet