I fear at times that I don’t know if my true self is still within me
Sometimes I fear she’s gone away
Sometimes I catch glimpses of her
In poetry I have saved, yet no one cares to read it, at least not fully through
I understand what Kurt said in his last note
Needing to be unfeeling, in desperate attempts to regain enthusiasms that were once had in years of early childhood
I feel utterly alone most days
Many years I have yearned for something I do not even know what is
What am I without my writing? What am I with it?
I can never write consistently, I can never predict what I will feel from one day to the next, yet many days feel the same
And there lingers the same utter pain
Writers block is an unintentional passion of mine
Fear is my best friend
Sadness is one of my greatest companions
Nostalgia appears several times a week
Anger eats me alive
Am I anything but a mere tragedy? A copy of other poets who have lost their minds? Am I original enough? Why must I feel the need to be so unique, to over explain everything I have ever felt?