Collection of the dark days

How?

I used to have so much
Passion
For writing, for who I wanted to be
A writer
Sometimes I suppose, childish wonder
Is called that for a reason

You can see why some
Write hundreds of thousands of books
Their never ending stream of stories to tell
Others
Write one, or two
I suppose that's all they need
To set free
Those are the only stories
They need to tell
Before the words stop flowing
Before it becomes a chore
You can see why some of the "Greats"
Took/Take breaks from it
To stay sane

And I?
What's my excuse
I am no "Great"
My writing won't change the world

I don't understand something
I don't understand how she doesn't
Hate me
On days like these
Because I sure as Hell
Hate myself

My little slice of 'reality' taught me to do that
It also taught me
That I'm not that good anyway
That these aren't any good
No one would buy a book
With my scriblings inside
The ones where, like now, I clutch for my
Humanity
In the numbness, the blackness & the pain
All of the pain

When others have had it far worse
Huddled inside my cocoon of self pity of self loathing
I still don't understand
How she really doesn't hate me
On days like these