My brother has rocks in his eyes.
He calls them gemstones and minerals and more I can't remember.
We tease him sometimes; "they're minerals marie."

His lover has two halves, the manic one
and the depressive one.
She's carrying his child, even though they aren't married.

Her brother fought against the excessive use of drug use in his family
being a rebel by doing well, being responsible.
but he was held down by his brother, and now he's the worst addict of them all.

His brother makes games. And music. And he writes poems. And he's rarely sober.
He's had life handed to him on a silver platter. He's handsome, smart, fun.
He's fun when he's sober.

His lover came from across the globe. When they were younger, he married her to let her come live in his country.
Her mother is a life-long ******* addict, and she dreads turning into her mother.
But it doesn't stop her from doing every drug imaginable. Her addiction has turned her lover against her, as well as most everyone else.

She used to be my lover, a long time ago. When she was younger, she had such fire in her heart. A passion unrivaled.
That's when I found my love for stories, for poems and tales of myths and strange legends in far away lands filled with wild magic.
I envied her passion, and to this day I still can't bring myself to show that kind of fire.

But I am trying now. I am practicing, writing whatever comes to mind.
When I sit now and look at the words I've spewed onto this noteblock, I think I understand.

I love my family, even though they don't know of my pain.
I love writing stories and poems, even though I lack knowledge, experience and most of the time, motivation.
I love people, even though I am gripped by terrible anxiety whenever interacting with them.

I'm writing this to myself, as well as to you; even though many things scare you and make you hurt, I hope you never lose your love for the world.