A Writer’s Mess

In the beginning of time, I wrote for you…

I write and keep writing for you, and somehow in the middle I started writing to you. Heart aching for some responses that I never get. I know I will never get.

My writing for you is selfish in every kind of way possible. It is the littlest insignificant of you that I write about.

And as I continue, I begin to write about the epitome of you. The abstract idea of you that were in my imaginations.

Then reality comes kicking me in the face. The truth hits, I wasn’t writing about you, nor do I write to you anymore, I was writing about what I want you to be. My vivid imaginations of you that I wish so hard to be true.

I began to tear pages of my writings of you… attempting to fix everything, to go back to writing for you.

In the end, I was left in the middle of many torn pages, a writer’s mess, just to realize that I lost myself in the middle of writing about you, and now that every pages have already been torn, I have torn away every piece of me too…

And in the middle of this writer’s mess, there’s no more you, no more me, and worst of all no more us…

—- t.b.h.g



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