I used to be good at this.
I’d open a blank sheet of paper and my thoughts would tumble onto the page, into neat little stanzas.
I used to be depressed.
My sadness would dig into my brain and pull out similes, metaphors and amazing alliterations.
I used to think about death. All of the time.
Death would push me to write what I could not say.
Death crept around the crevices of my soul, and consumed the paper as I sat.
I used to hope writing would take away all of my pain.
My poetry was beautiful and haunting, detailing a teenagers suicidal thoughts.
I realized I had to find my own happiness.
And it wouldn’t be on a page, where I contemplated all of the issues that made me that way.