voltavotary

This is not your poem. I thought about it, and I would love to be able to write one for you, but I don't think it would come out good enough. At this moment, it would be angry and confused. I shouldn't be angry with you, i know this. Perhaps writing this will help me to not be angry and confused so that I can write for you something beautiful or inspiring, or at the very least, something that is a personalized memory from me. But I almost doubt it. I doubt it because I know I don't write like you, not even while I'm in pain. I doubt it because I write angrily and bluntly when I write. I write selfishly, blaming other people. That is not something I want to do to you, especially because I know you are not to blame. And I doubt it because I feel that I am surrounded by ugly, uninspiring trash that pushes out and forces away any kind of depth or true passion that I may have.

Sometimes, throughout this day, I'm wondering why and how this is affecting me so much. My body and mind feel numb and lifeless, like setting rigor mortis. I feel sick to my stomach, I eat little. When my body does move, it mildly shakes, little more than a tremble, or my eyes quiver due to the welling tears that I try not to let fall. I say all this to inform, not to hurt.

this is to be continued.