In the end,

I don’t care about fucking sea imagery

Or having breadth and width to my writing.

I don't care about secrecy

Or covering up my feelings.

Please, call me a stalker, call me hung up,

Call me the spawn of the devil.

Writing takes all the bad stuff out of me

And puts it on a page

A page that functions like a jar

And the publish button screws on the lid.

All the nightmares, and hurt, and lies

And raw fears that plague my brain

Go into the jar,

And I can look at them and laugh

When the lid is on tight

And they can't get me anymore.

So let me say what I need to,

So my fears don't eat me alive.

Because not saying a word,

Might just kill me.

All I want to say is,

Don't talk to me about not working.

It has nothing to do with that.

You screwed me over,

You lied,

You played the wrong chick

Because I was it

And now you shoved it away.

So im gone, trust me

I’m out of your way,

And I can’t see any part of you anymore.

But you already knew,

It was already over,

I don’t need some beach scene to tell you that.