Keep It To Yourself, No One Cares

Why I hardly talk to anyone on here
I'm too used to talking to the air
Too used to talking to lines on paper
Too used to never being heard.
That has become my only wood of sparking flames
But from the things I write about
That fire either dies very quickly,
Or simply never ignites...
Well not in terms of conversing with another human.
But it ignites elsewhere.
It's hell
The hell I feel every time I'm alone with my thoughts
Or every time I'm in situations that causes conflict between righteousness and emotions
Whenever I think of talking to anyone
I think of what I'm gonna say after asking how's everything going
Nothing comes to mind
EVERY TIME
Except one thing
That being sharing my writing
But then I put myself in your shoes
And ask myself how I'd feel about someone talking about poetry
EVERY TIME they talk to me
Especially if most of it is depressing
Because it's about my problems
I guess I wouldn't give a damn either
And with this in mind
I stop myself from hitting anyone up every time
Just like I'm stopping myself from going any further with this poem
Because after a certain point in this poem,
You and I both know it's not even a poem anymore
I'm simply just...
I'm not really sure myself what the fuck I'm doing with these words.
Am I complaining, maybe
Am I explaining something, maybe that too
I just know that this isn't a poem anymore
Just a pile of words.