Self destructive

So I took off running, running as far as I could. I've been running all this time, but now it seems i've come full circle and I'm simply running head first back towards you, stumbling as I go. Hopeing, praying that something gets in my way.
I'm so silently self destructive, so ironically aware of my own decisions to completley obliterate myself. I have no sense of whether this is what I want or if it simply fullfills my romantic illusions. The fantasies of a person who is so elated by the expression of emotion through words. What fun is writeing about contentment? The poets who used to write poem after poem, confessing undieing love, expressing the torment of a feeling so overwhelming, so all consumeing, so completley enthralled by another. Was this true love every time, or the sin in which we call lust? Surely true love can only be felt once. Where have the most beautiful words come from? Pain. It makes you wonder what a life of self destruction and torture can accomplish. The mind of a tortured poet, the heart of a tortured soul. An old soul, not at rest.


Unfinished.
I'm still pondering, but my eyes are too heavy to clearly project my thoughts.