You see, it used to be therapeutic. Writing. But I guess it's just like any other high. You get used to it, and then it stops being enough to help you cope with what you're trying to cope with in the first place. And I don't even know what I was coping with anyway. All I know is that it's not working anymore. Not like it used to. I forge beautiful language and it's not enough to keep me from thinking of my own impending self destruction. Am I going to take a turn too fast or maybe not at all? Or just crawl in my room and live out the rest of my life with no interaction period? I'm pretty close to that in the first place, I think. Even the music isn't enough. Not to cover up the lies that are force fed to me. They say they won't betray me or leave me. That we will always be friends and that no matter what. No matter what. And they all lied. And maybe I'm just complaining for nothing. And maybe it's just a pity party, but I don't think it is. I just feel so deeply and I'm exhausted from it. So yes. There's not many pieces I've written that aren't about you. And fewer still that weren't for you. I never kept anything if I didn't think you would like it. Which is why most things I write even still don't have curse words. Those that do I deemed the word critical and unacceptable to replace with a more blasé word. So.... I don't know why I did this. But I guess it is in some ways disgustingly therapeutic. My poems betray me. They were always yours anyway.