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Writing is my inspiration when I feel like dying.
Writing is my shoulder to lean on when others
Fail to realize that the advice they’re giving me is invalid.
Writing is my comfort when I’m too drained to cry anymore.
Writing is my inspiration when my palms and fists are too swollen
From hitting the wall repeatedly, trying to damage it as I am already damaged.
Writing is there for me when others aren’t.
It relieves me of my sorrow when others messes around with me,
It relieves me of my pain when the people around me betray me
And others mentally manipulate me.
It is one of the few reasons I get up in the morning. But I wonder,
What will happen when the candle blows out, the tea tips over on the
Coffee table, and runs cold? What will happen when I’ve lost my creative
Sense of writing? Will I just be gone in the wind?
What will happen then? Will I just be just another person in the dark?
Oblivious to the emotions inside of her? Oblivious to anything and
Everything around her? A walking statue, a walking mannequin of silence?
‘Till then I’ll keep wondering, keep dreaming.