I wonder why everything I write on paper is so depressing
And why my mind picks random lines from poetry to recite over and over like quiet prayers (is this my religion? words and stories?)
Why red ink tastes like sin (no that's too cliche) like seduction?
Why the cover of this moleskine is so soft and forgiving (I swear just for me) the sigh into a trusted friend's shoulder
I can't cry any more so I'll sing badly but fervently songs that help soothe the gnawing ache inside
Cherish the few people who make me feel full and whole (Banish the phantom pains for limbs or extensions of me I've lost)  
I'll exhale poems to ravel up the bad feelings
It's a struggle or maybe just a war that I just don't want to lose any more