Written Words

I'll try to draw a picture of what I'm feeling to show the pain rather than write it, but my hand doesn't comprehend pictures and as if on it's own accord writes away. The music blares shocking me for a moment, reminding myself of the time and place, responsability hangs itself around my throat and my conscience pulls me down drowning me in worries and sorrows. My heart thuds as I write what needs to be written. I hate the way I feel and yet like what the words translate into. What kind of person does that make me? A misanthropic shunning human affection to achieve greatness? Does pain need to pour before the pen begins to feel? Does blood need to spill for the words to form? I risk heaven and hell for what? I am alone but with great written words on paper. When the times comes will I be able to let someone read my "master piece", probably not for i would have exposed the kind of person I hide behind the mask of indifference. I shouldn't care what anyone says and yet here I am time and time again. The words have finally stopped flowing and the tears have been contained. My wounds have scabbed over and what have I achieved? One night less of embarrassment and my pride intact.