repeat
i have nothing to say, nothing to spill that will dampen the pain. but i have nothing else, nothing but a fountain of repetitive metaphors. a whirlpool in my mind that continues to drag me inwards. the same wound, the same pain, the same fragile existence. i write it again, i selfishly indulge in it, and regret it all over again. there is nobody but myself to understand, nobody else who wants to hear it. i can pass my desperation off as passion, and hide behind the same person i am. i soak in the pain, reading over every little intention again and again. i already know it all before its written, its my own pain, my own sorrow that i play with. yet i repeat it and relive it again. the same metaphor will bleed into my mind until i find the end.