My pen and its ink.
So long have I gone without documenting my thoughts.
My words.
My Desires.
My Dreams.
Only to myself do I make sense when I scream silently.
I pound my fists against the walls and slam the doors until the hinges start to creek.
I have no outlet. Nothing to hold myself from breaking.
The music that I used to so willingly turn to has become nothing more than static to my ears.
And the books I drowned myself in have sat untouched on my dust ridden shelves.
I am alone.
Here.
In this box.
I am alone.
Except for a growing organism.
Barely staying alive.... I try to keep it green.
