Your prose is filled to the brim with your rage and despair. Not a lick of love in the words you spew on the pages.

It's a creative outlet like any other isn't it ? But you hide it. Not willing to show what you really feel inside.
You want people to see so they feel as sorry for you as you do.
At the same time you don't want to be perceived that way. What a farce.

Your creative juice are filled by an hateful muse. When you feel bad she's here to torment you.
And you write so its not stuck in your brain.

When you read it back you see how you really felt and you re-live the agony. You seem to like to hurt yourself.

You scream to the page, to yourself but it doesn't escape your lips in fear your muse ear. But she never listen so why bother truthfully ?