When my pencil touches the paper, it becomes part of my soul, the feelings I write. When I write, I let go of all control and give it to my feelings. My anger goes rampant, my sadness starts to roll down hill, my "happiness" finally sheds it's skin and I finally become the REAL ME. If you see me writing, you may or may not notice something different about me. You may or may not see the change in my attitude, but it's there. The smile I used to have, wither's away like a rose in mid-summer heat. This information, this writing, this is me, this means something to me, and this is being read for a reason. Everything and I mean every little thing happens for a reason, so the reason why you came up upon this is something God only knows. I am a mess socially, emotionally, physically, and mentally. No one wants to stop and help, and maybe it's for the best, but on one understands me enough. They're too scared to try and help with some little amount of emotional hurt (that's what it looks like on the outside) that seems too deep to step in, that seems easy to get rid of. What I deal with to them, seems like a little thing that's easy to push around and control. Never the less, it's a disease, a cancer, that continues to infect my whole body hoping one day to take control of my life.
It's almost to the point to where bleeding it all out of my body doesn't sound like a bad idea.
It's to the point of where I even pity MYSELF.
How sad is that?
It sounds pretty normal,
at least to me.
