I'm a writer,
But what if I tell you that I'm losing my identity? It's been a few months and I feel that I'm slowly losing my ability to write.
I always considered myself a poet. But now, I feel like a dictionary with thousands of blank pages. With no definition and no sense of reason.
And I'm scared.
How will you ever love me now?
You fell in love with me because of my words, didn't you?
They always stirred some sort of emotion within you. Something that you tried so hard to hide. But whenever you read the poems that I wrote, your armor cracked.
What if I tell you that writing had slowly turned into a burden? Baggage that has now become too heavy for me to carry all alone. I realized a while back, how I pushed myself to write just to connect with you. To let you know how I'm suffering. I expressed all my agony through those words. I wrote about how, all those words, that had once been a blessing now seem like punishment.
You called that mad rambling of words, 'Beautiful.' You were too blind to see how this pain was consuming me. So, once again I forced myself to down the poison that you thought, tasted like an age-old wine.
Darlin, the words have abandoned me, and now so did you.
