The pen is mightier than the sword. Writing is more effective than violence.
Words are all I have but the more metaphors you make the less they mean. I stopped believing them; they're as empty as me. My swan song has sputtered and died, and somehow it wasn't enough. I've never been enough. This gaping hole in my chest is still swallowing me whole. Not enough, never enough.
It didn't save Hemingway, after all. No amount of soul on paper could keep that shotgun off his temple. No amount of desperate scribble banished his demons.
I think I knew how he felt, sitting with the gun in his hands his last few moments. I think I knew how he felt, weak and collapsing. Everything in vain, because the problem was in his veins.
At the end of the day, it's your heart or your head that's polluting you and you can't kill those toxins without killing yourself. Blow out your brains, stop your heart. Channel your frustration into writing all you want, but the poison is never-ending. It owns you, consumes you, slowly drowns you.