A goodbye?

I have come to realize that I only write well when I have been picked apart, cut to pieces, and otherwise crushed by the people who mean most to me. I guess this is why good writers submit themselves to constant emotional distress and/or become dependent on substances to fuel the creative voice that is only able to escape at the pinnacle of vulnerability.

I remember when my parents found one of the poems I was fond of writing in those teenage years. I vaguely remember themes of wrist cutting and blood and bathroom floors. I myself was not on the brink of suicide, but I was convinced pretending so lent my writing some lyrical credence. My parents did not understand, why would one write something they did not feel, something so evocative and I guess disturbing.

The lesson being, I should stop attempting to write with the accelerant of melodrama and feigned feeling. Such work is exposed as fraud when genuine representations find themselves a home on paper (or computer screen).