via deitra- waste of space, waste of time, waste of paper

i'm looking through my moleskine at all the garbage that i write to try and pretend i can figure out how i feel.
all the words i hide behind like some psychological breakthrough, psychiatric evaluation,
trying to diagnose something i don't even know where to find, pretending to have these deep feelings when maybe i really don't feel anything-- no connection-- to anyone that i should.
why i can't write what i know. write the things i feel stupid saying.
write about the lies i've told, the lies i've endured.
maybe i deserve to be deceived.
topics for discussion, maybe...
why i can't believe anyone now.
why everyone is out to get me.
why paranoia has become my new religion.
(kneel at the altar, and think of 4 conspiracies for penance.)
why even write at all? no one reads it. not even me.
write to forget.
write to remember.
write to compartmentalize.
write for help that will never come.
write to be found out.
write to waste your life.
write to kill trees.
write to leave a falsified record of yourself.
so your grandkids can find it, dusty and old, yellowed and curled in the attic.
and think they know you.
but only learn the lie.