I guess writing didn't work.
I'm starting to see cobwebs collecting between the lines of your poems.
They're lost, buried in a library of millions upon millions of other peoples problems that are just written in different ways.
It's okay.
I understand why you have stopped.
At times I want to.
My poems feel like rants, not art.
My songs sound familiar, and not my own.
Maybe if I throw in a metaphor or two it will end up being loved.
It's a romance that's fading.
I have just as much guts to say I love you as I do to let go.
But I'll keep writing.
And I hope you keep reading.
Maybe one day I'll change you.