At least I'm writing

I need to write. 

God, do I.

It's been days, with no click of the keys

to write out simple stories, poems, words

things that will never see the light of day

but I still love.

Happiness is writing, but I hate 

everything I write

Can hate be happy?

Can love and hate cross the line

to fear?

Love is an opposite,

not to hate

but Fear

Am I afraid of the thing I love?

Can I truly love it if I am?

Can I truly hate it?

I don't know. At least I'm writing.

At least the sentences spill,

they're not cohesive, collective

accurate.

It's not poetry, it's just words. 

A story in a made up sense

formatted to make it look poetic

I hate writing

I love writing

I fear writing

A paradox

I cannot do all three