August 21st, 2009

I want to speak up, but even then I fear no one will hear me still. Even if they hear me, that doesn’t mean that they’re actually even listening. You find yourself writing about your friends, but they’re too annoyed at the fact you’re always writing new things, to even bother reading them anymore. Putting effort and affection into something you think is art, and finding the response wasn’t what you wanted sometimes hurts a lot more than you thought it would. No response, or interrogation. The people who actually care don’t read it in the way it’s supposed to be artistically, and want to know what’s behind it. Writing is personal, and sometimes it takes a lot of courage for me to post it. No one sees that; no one understands. No one gets what crossed my mind when I tried to form those phrases; when I tried to create something that replaces the need for pages and pages of smeared ink diary entries. Simple and complex, they link together, their DNA forms all I need to say that I love writing, but sometimes words are not enough to keep me breathing.

(Originally Posted Here)