The lightbulb hangs above my head,
the room is warm and quiet.
My hands shake with anxiety.
The paper is my skin,
the pen is my soul and the ink is my blood.
Every word I write is a part of me.
I am forced to write letters to ease the pressure in my head.
My head is filled with thoughts, ready to escape like popcorn trapped in a closed, hot pot.
I write letters to ease the pain in my heart.
All I know is pain.
My friends speak of happiness,
A feeling this world has not allowed me to feel.
I write letters seeking love, seeking forgiveness and seeking shelter.
I seek shelter from this cruel world that feeds on our pain and misery.
I write letters about the opportunities I’ve missed,
The mistakes I’ve made.
I write letters to the people I’ve disappointed and whose hearts I’ve broken.
I write letters to the girl I like,
Hoping her smile is the cure I am seeking.
I write one last letter,
A letter to my older self, hoping one day I will be around to read it.