The pain that I can feel within myself gives me the words, thoughts and feelings that get translated into poetry. Most of that which draws its origin back to my heart is angry, dark, brooding, and usually fatal, but this is the only path I have to take to release what I bottle up.
I can't talk to my parents, they brush me off with ease or attempt to associate with a stereotype of the idyllic teenage life that I should be living. To admit my fallacies to those around me would be blaspemous to everything I've learned about this world. Thus, the dark bile that becomes my words and my rhythms forms itself in my mind on the crest of an errant thought. My thoughts are all I have, and to be alone, for me, is the best therapy I have found. I consider the effects of my actions, previous and future, in the light provided by an angry cynicism, given me by experience and trial.This consideration is never between good and evil, or any precept set in the philosophy that there is only happy or sad in the world, but I consider the effect of each action upon myself, upon the regular rotation of my day which has become oh so much like digging a hole that will never lead to any precious mineral, or any destination, the only place it will lead is into the darkest recesses of my psyche.