No.

I will not craft beautiful language about daisies and daffodils
Weaving abstract and concrete realities

I will continue on my existential path

I will not provide a respite from these horrible worries I have

That is what you do
For me

I am a writer in turmoil.

I will keep thrashing in this way until I die.

SOMETIMES I will snap out of my coma
And enjoy writing about the way it's just beautiful
Something else
Something descriptive and nice

I honestly feel bad for writing things like that song
'I can't do this anymore'

But no.

I have turned into myself
Like an incel--
And I hate you for not loving me the way i love myself

I hate you for it.

I hate you.

I hate you for that.