My loneliness drips on pages , clotting words with crystals of sufferings and exhaustion . I don't want to write , I don't want to . But do I have another option ? Lumps of unfiltered agony slosh around in my skull , and they're growing like mosses on damp , feeding on everything that's inside me . My veins are filled with gory metaphors and sharp edges of all those poems I never wrote . They suffocate me , I see black when I open my eyes and my breath comes out smoky from a dying lamp. Fire left behind brands my fingertips . I write , because that's all I know how to do , except looking at my barcode shell , and searching for another empty patch of skin . I write , because I'd suffocate to death under the weight of all those things waiting to seep out from my brain . I write , because I either have to put the blood in my subconscious , on crinkled pages , or I'd witness myself from a point far away bleeding to death . I write , because I'd end myself either way .