i want to give up writing. inspiration doesn’t flow from me anymore.
there is too much pain to vent and not enough words. with my limited vocabulary and terrible concentration how will i ever express my truest feelings? even voicing my own thoughts seems hard these days. when i sit to read all my past work, i feel alien to myself. i can’t recognize the person who wrote this.
i realize this because i don’t know who i am.  i have questions but no answers. i have means but no will. i have goals but no hope. all i desire, leaves me. all i cherish, dies and all i keep, decays. i did this to myself. my crooked arm of evil twisted the levers and swung the fulcrum. savoring the regret. i have a million. one for every scar, stab, spit and more. they will pile on until i’m crushed under the weight of my anguish.
everything this world has to offer is wonderful. i don’t care about any of it now. all wonders are paltry. all laughter is forced. only pain feels like home. married to despair with emptiness on its way. as of now, the chaos of thoughts will only entertain the conscious mind. soon thoughts will freeze. words will halt. i will go mute. incapable of even speaking with people. walls will be built. prisons of self hate and apathy. this will become my habitat.
nobody will bother to remember my name. incognito, i will chase the flame in my dark maze of tears and drool.