I don’t write poetry. I reiterate conversations.

I write in seconds. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I simply write and when it comes, it flows and it makes sense because it’s genuine. I don’t understand thought-out poetry. It doesn’t seem real to me.

Maybe the problem isn’t everything and everyone around you, but what lies within you.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but your words were always the hardest.

I stopped writing in a way they would understand because it wasn’t for them or even him. It was for I to understand, for I to make sense, and for I to let go of it.

I’ll never know if it was figuratively or literally when he said I drove him crazy.

But could words bethe end of me?

I stopped writing in the obvious. I wrote how I saw it and if they don’t understand it, that’s fine.