Conclusions.

Sometimes I don't know if writing is really for me.

I was planning on writing something special.
I don't know for who, or necessarily what.
I guess just thought if I tried hard enough to be okay; to feel happy or at least sound like it,
I be would in the end.
All I received was the biggest lie of my life.
And a prison sentence in this 12X14 room.
Isolation will continue for several more months.
Even years considering my luck.
I have nothing to look forward to.
Seventeen years of my life have flashed before my eyes without impact.
What a waste I am; my existence is needless at this point.
I have nothing to show for the s**t I've done.
Except this damn blog no one reads.
And that water soaked/dirt stained journal I'm ready to burn.
Why the f**k do I bother? Honestly.
I don't know how much more I can fake for four more months.

I can't be "OKAY"  here.
I just can't, okay?
I've tried for so long.
I don't have the heart or strength anymore.
This is it.
I'm sorry.

You wouldn't understand.

And I don't know where to begin.

Author's Note

Rip it apart.