Writing

What you write is not always what you mean,
It is based on a simple emotion,
You cannot express.
And not expressing it well.
You write for the tension,
That has risen to settle down,
As you think about your life events,
That could have angeried you,
Or continued on your marry way of happiness.
The hands that feeds,
Is the one that defeats a purpose.
Make up the words,
To soon encounter a fate.
Yet, it will be unwilling unknown to you,
For it is a subconquence as all.
Its not like you wanted to suppress the thought,
Which turns into a paper of self-worth,
Only because you never told the person how you felt.
Who would have known you would have done such a thing.
But, the next time I see you will be that last.
For it will be my final good-bye to my past.