ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ :)

ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ.

No matter how much I write, I cannot seem to get my words out.

Emotions swirl inside of me as the sickness in my stomach continues to burn and swell like a whirlpool in the sea.

I'm lost between feelings, thoughts, and experiences, and everything gathers into one singular question: Is this enough to make me want to die?

Can I do it?

Can I leave?

Or will it finally get better, like you promised?

Will I find someone who is willing to listen, to speak, to understand?

Or will I be endlessly searching for the impossible?

Ignoring your empty promises, I try to distract myself from the burning sensation that the hatred of the "gift of life" brings me.

I put pen to paper like I did before, and come up with some new poetic designs, before drafting a few, rather sketchy, lines:

"Poetry, my friend, my dear escape from reality,
Why do you make it so hard to write?
Whilst I suffer through the world's brutality,
You failed to serve as my divine guidance; my light."

(Man fuck everything :)) I forgot how to write!!)