the pain, she said, that writing gives me

makes me lie in bed

million thoughts in my head

as I cry, or smile, doesn’t matter I just lay there a while

and think about the words I said and spilled on the page

barring my soul to the unknown crowd of achievers and cheaters and all in-between

but it’s better than the silence of casting it aside, making me so sick I just lay down and my soul dies as

I can’t even find the energy to cry, or smile, or think about the world

I am selfish, insecure, and alone.