The paper doesn't yell. It doesn't tell me I'm wrong. The pen leads the way. It listens to what I have to say. The pen encourages me to sing my song. The paper doesn't judge me. It knows all of my issues. The paper carries my weight. It calls out to me saying, I miss you. Come back. I have PTSD from my past. Sometimes it creeps up to haunt me. Like waiting for the suspense in a story To turn into a climax. Except unlike a story, I have no conclusion. There is no resolution. Only confusion. Sometimes I think I'm doing well. Other times I am compelled To stay inside all day. I don't want to play. Conversations happen. And that is it. They happen. When arguments exist, I shut down. I'd rather walk away. Despite my exterior, I hate confrontation. I don't WANT to hurt other people. Although I know I am MORE than capable. Being called names, or judged Just for simply Speaking my opinion. Stuff like this is the reason; Why I let the seasons pass. I'm not meant to be human. What am I? Smart and kind and loving. Successful. That is what they say. But on the inside I hide. Everything. The anxiety. The guilt. The fire and the rage. Sometimes it all goes so fast I can't even remember the day. I don't know my own name. Hiding my true form, nobody understands. I don't want to touch you, please don't hold my hand. Without some sense of intelligence - I'm not into it. Without some emotional expression and connection It's irrelevant. Just go away. I Tell them and myself everyday. My intention isn't to hurt. I'm just fully misunderstood. By the everyday happenings, That I never thought would. You can't get what you want from me now, So you treat me like a b*tch. Tired of this world, I've got more than a 7 year itch. Paper and pen. My only friends. They don't get mad. They let me in. Paper and pen, accept me for who I am. What do I need humans for, ever again?