I can write a wonderful piece about the pain I’m going through right now, but I cannot make it go away.

I can describe to you all the ways my chest is torn into pieces every time I hear your name.

I can tell you exactly how I feel each and every night I stare into the ceiling with tears in my eyes and too much in my head.

I can use my words to show you how much this sorrow follows me everywhere I go, but I will never be able to use these same words to close this hole lacerating my chest.

It's the irony of being a writer. No matter how many poems I write, it will be never be enough to extinguish this empty feeling inside me.

My words will never amount to anything. It will never make justice to anything that ever made me suffer.

I am a writer. I can make people relate to my pain when I don’t even understand it myself.

I am a writer who needs a damn therapist because my own words put into a piece of paper cannot and will never ease the amount of negligence I endured throughout my best and worst days as a child.

I am a writer who feels too much and by feeling too much I am unable to forget every single word ever said to me, and by being unable to forget I am unable to forgive.

I am begging myself to see past through the darkness and into the light that shines upon us all. I am begging for strength to hold on, take a breath and survive.

I am a writer who needs someone to write for me.