When I write, I no longer want to fear myself.
I wish to bleed myself dry to these pages without wondering if anything I do is of any worth.
When I write, I no longer want to doubt myself.
I wish to gnash my teeth together as my truth flows out in an array of colors and emotions.
When I write, I no longer want to erase my emotions.
I wish for tears to fall down my cheeks as I bare my imperfect soul to a computer and its keyboard.
When I write, I no longer want to grieve about unsaid words.
I wish for the past to become palpable and remind me of how I got here and those that I left behind in the process.
When I write, I no longer want to compare myself to every other individual in existence.
As I sit here, I realize that writing is a vital part of myself.  
In hating writing, I begin to hate the child that dreamt of writing a book.
That child, I hold her tight in hopes of realizing her everlasting happiness again.
I wish to come home to her again one day.

I have a memory of a young girl opening a book.
It is quite a large book for her tiny, delicate hands.
She looks as though a light gust of wind could blow her away and yet she is holding the book with careful hands.
In the memory she leafing through the book not quite understanding what is being said.
She had just recently learned how to read.
Such a large book was astonishing to her naïve eyes.
How does a person read a large book like this is what she was thinking.
Marveling at the fact she decides to one day read the large book and any large book alike.
It was a dream, an innocent little thought.
Soon enough another dream was blossoming in the young girl.
As she grew up she decided that one day she'd write books.
With hands that had grown a slight bit she would write until her fingers were stained with ink and the pages filled.
It was pure happiness.
But at one point the young girl becomes an adult with a memory that would fail her.
She could no longer remember the same happiness she would receive from the simple existence of literature.
No longer did the pages excite her, for some reason the pages would intimidate her instead.
She became fearful of those same words.
The words she could no longer write.
For some reason they became a memory she does not understand.
Why?
I don't understand anymore.

The day I realized I wanted to die I felt as if all the light of the world had fled from me.
In front of me lied my own hopes, murdered.
The flowers withered with me, I could no longer be considered beautiful.
The day I wanted to die never stopped.

Writing was as easy as breathing to me.
I could write for hours about any fantasy I had and it was all so beautiful and precious to me.
But at some point the blank pages started to intimidate me.
I'd hold my pen as if it would tell me all the answers to any of my fears.
At one point my fears became the words that would fail me.
Suddenly breathing wasn't as easy as before.
I'd hold my breath and count the seconds hoping that at one point it would all stop.
My world would stop spinning and all I could think about were the poems I could not write.

Hands that are used to create beauty no longer hold the same passion.
Lingering in my mind are memories and thoughts which have no more use.
I can see in the corner of my periphery a window which shines a bright day.
Maybe today there is more weight in the everyday life I choose to consistently throw away.
From my *****, mussed bedsheets I only see the wall and a phone screen which I use as much as I breathe.
This is living I decide as I discard whatever pride I used to have.
The same songs played on a day that has repeated too many times for comfort.
A vacancy is where my mind lives.

There is a certain emotion in my mother's eyes I am used to.
It drips off her lips and reaches everyone in distance of her.
Sometimes when I glance in the mirror I can see it reflected in my bloodshot eyes.

In my dreams, there is a girl with brown eyes.
I know who she is, she was once in my math class.
In my mind's eye, I still retain her face even all these years later.
I never recall having a conversation with her.
All we had was eye contact.
I  would stare, she would stare; I like to believe it was a two-way experience.
At one point, I started to fall.
My daydreams and nights were filled with her bold eyes.
I loved the way she would face things head-on.
Soon enough I started to create scenarios of us together.
I went insane with the thought of her because I knew that was the only way I would ever have her.
Being in the closet was comfortable in a suffocating way.
I could exist in my own garden without anyone knowing but it was such a lonely existence.
The more I hid the more I became sick with envy.
She was out in the open while I hid in terror.
Even now I still wonder how things would have changed if I had taken a chance.
Furtive glances are not worth much if a step is never taken.
I sit here thinking about a one-sided story that will always stay in the past.
What good is it if I never learn?