The pain I had always felt made it hard for me to understand what my purpose is. Typing my aggression in hopes it would give insight on my true intention. Not to catch a reader or reflect on a best reader's mention. But to catch myself or what would come from help.
A therapist without lips but a blank page and a flashing line. Waiting for you to open your mind. Throw up your sickness and put it on a page. If they read, someone might call you insane but your fine right?. Who cares because its giving you relief from the pain of your day to day.
The hate. Was my purpose to hate. Hoping one day I'd died knowing my fate. Always wanting to be ahead.
I wish I knew but let me open up another blank page.
