My soul is that of a writer.
I put my thoughts into words
And present it to you.
But I don't always do it for you.
Sometimes it's for me.
I'm glad if it helps you,
But I need it to help me too.
If it doesn't help me, then what's the point?
If my head still hurts, then what's the point?
If it doesn't help,
Then I just get more frustrated.
With myself.
With my thoughts.
My thoughts that ask,
"What's the point?"
And I can't answer.
Because I don't know.
I just want everything to stop.
I want to rid myself of this emotion.
And every time I can't, I just get angrier.
Maybe you can get by with just
Punching a pillow.
Maybe that's enough for you
To get your anger out.
To vent your frustrations.
Not for me.
That's not enough.
I need to feel it.
Because otherwise
What's the point?
I'm angry. I want to hurt something.
I know there's no point
In hitting the wall,
Or the door,
Or the desk.
But at that point,
My anger clouds my thoughts.
Can't I be rid of them both.
Can't I be ignorant and blissful?
Instead of mindless rage
Or numb with a million thoughts.
That's why I write.
If I can get the thoughts out of my head.
If I can do it easily.
If I just let it flow out.
I'll be ok.
Right?
Until I start to think again.
But I live to please.
I try to control my thoughts
And shape them
Into a form you'll enjoy.
I force them to rhyme.
I give it rhythm.
But those aren't my thoughts.
There's no rhyme or reason in my head.
I want to scream.
But what's the point?
What's the point of writing?
Nothing changes.
Even if I knew how to change it.
I don't think I could.
And if I did
I doubt I'd be happier.
I'd never be content.
So,
What's the point?
