I find myself lacking all those things
I need to be whole.
To be me.
But it doesn't matter.
I used to write all the time.
Notebooks filled with poetry and stories.
I used to convey all feelings...
all pieces of me.
It's lost, that part of me.
I was fueled by such sadness and despair
that the words would just flow from my heart, my soul.
They'd flood the paper with a rage
so deep that I could not contain myself.
The page would tear under the sheer
passion that flow from inside.
I, I, I.
It's all about me.