Sick

Writing a book feels like just channeling my thoughts.

No one reads it, I know that. I see it from the engagement when I post them.

I feel so hollow when I look. Forty-one reads, half my own making sure it's all right,

Written well. Correct grammar. No discrepancies. Written so people will like it.

But no one sees. So they remain words plastered to the walls that are increasingly boxing me in. But they are my words, but they stick. There is no peace in writing it.

But I keep writing, because if I don't, I may fall apart at the very thread-barren seems that hold me together. Nothing I've quilted together, but simply there from birth.

I have worn them so thin, until they have become far beyond frayed.

I cannot slip from frayed seems, but over time they either wear me down or I them.

I am not sure which is losing the fight.

All I know, is I do not feel well,