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The truth is that although I love you and know you can’t change you are driving me to the point of insanity and if you don’t stop we will drift apart.

If she wasn’t my Mother, I couldn’t stand her.

Truth be told, I’m really scared of what I’m becoming.

Truth is I share the room with hatred of you. Each day my eyes lay upon you, I ponder how you would fare with a pencil stabbed between your eyes. I wonder if rope will be strong enough to bind you as I gently run my knife along your taut skin. Will Bounty paper towels really pick up all of your blood? Will our hearts race together yours in fear and mine in joy? Truth is I will not harm you, because you are not worth it and I am.

Truth is, I’m not too sure of who I am.

Writing is complex. It both binds you and sets you free. The key is to write for your own sanity, your own pleasure, instead of other’s. If a writer strays from this path, he/she would become lost and manipulated by other people and his work wouldn’t have the same quality. A writer expresses his/her own feelings in one of the most raw forms: it’s the cleanest one, but also the most difficult. Writing anything takes a good head and a extreme heart.