No Outlet

They say art is a good outlet
I’ve seen people vouch for this 
It must be true, right?
But then why is it that for me, it just seems to be a mere reminder of my agony?
Wrote songs, but I can’t sing them without revisiting the pain 
Wrote poems but there’s so much I left out by fear of being looked differently
Ironic isn’t it? I hate to be defined as normal yet straying too far from it terrifies me
Perhaps pathetic is a better word
Perhaps I am meant to keep all of my pain 
Maybe an outlet is just not meant for me
Maybe I will grow thanks to my torment
I wonder how much I can take before exploding 
Everyone has their limits after all
Everyone has their breaking point
I wonder what will happen when I reach mine