Life is Short. So is this book

#84

Dear diary,

They ask me why I don't write anymore, they have no idea why. Promise to bury my little secret.

I don't write because I'm tired.

I'm tired of creating art from my broken strings of my heart.

I'm tired of painting the bruises of my soul in the form of a poem.

I'm tired of being laughed when I say I cannot write about happiness.

I'm tired that they always understand the poem, but not the poet.

I'm tired of bleeding ink for the person who can never ever be with me.

And the last time I bled ink for her, they called it a masterpiece. What if I write next is not a masterpiece? I'm scared.

That's why I don't write anymore. Because I'm tired. Because I lost my muse.