I'm tired of these lonely nights.
I just want it to end.
Simple words, or complicated,
cannot describe how I'm feeling.
There is no one who understands.
No one shares this pain, this absence
of happiness, this great devoid loneliness.
And no one knows that I'm
feeling this. No one realizes that I'm
slipping. I'm finally sliding into
my madness. What would happen?
If people knew. What if I tell someone?
Would they listen? No.
It wouldn't matter anyway. You, sheet
of paper, white with such straight blue
lines, are my only true friend. I spill
myself unto you. You know all of
my pain and sorrow and heartache.
You. You are the only thing fit
to judge me, yet you cannot. And
that is too fine. As harsh as I
judge myself, I can't imagine
me from outside. I cannot imagine the
brutality that could only come from
you, my love, my only love, my
true savior. And still there is another.
There is another who has
shown me her love. But I
could not, without great repercussions,
write hundreds of thousands
of millions of words upon her flesh.
And I miss her, for her absence
must be (what else could it be?) the
source of this loneliness. Not this
everlasting agony of and in my soul,
no. She is the only one to come
close to you. She is the only person
with the capabilities, the patience,
to ease my hurt. And now I
must go, for she has come to relieve
this lonely feeling. Farewell,
my true outlet.