I’ve been working on getting my book together lately, I don’t know who it’s for anymore. If it’s for you or for me. These doubts keep constantly piling up in my mind. One would think after this long I’d grow fond of my own poetry, but it seems my mind is a trivial thing. She is never satisfied. She grapples me, very pestering she is, for one who never even started writing for herself but because of others. It’s amusing- if I were someone on the outside looking in, that is- but it is myself, so all it does it hurt me. I sit and recite these words, words that I once fawned over but now leave a putrid taste in my mouth, bile in my throat. So, I ask again, who am I really doing this for? Am I doing it for attention, my lack thereof? I have never had a firm pillar in my life, someone eager to eat up my words. That never stopped me from writing about you though. I carry all this weight, in my hands, clinging itself onto my back. I’m not even doing this for myself anymore. 

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