I have moved beyond poetry into something that can only be expressed in the form of a physical outburst, whether it be crying or throwing something against the wall. Sitting here isn’t cutting it. Writing isn’t cutting it. I’m just barely holding on until something changes–until something can be done. Sitting in the doctor’s exam room now. Awaiting his arrival. Have a good feeling about it. Good feelings are hard to come by these days.
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. It’s completely pointless. Everything I write is a joke. I’m tired of it. What do you do when you’re tired of yourself? You change something. I’m working on that. I can’t stand some of the things I’ve done recently. Sleeping with that girl takes the cake though. It had been years since I’d had a one night stand. Why did I have to go and do it?
The worst part is, I feel quite capable of doing it again. I’m still in that place, that no matter how aware I am of the truth of the situation, I’ll still go and do something stupid just to escape my present frame of mind, even if only for a moment. Ugh. Is it obvious I’m unhappy?