Save yourself my friend

Save yourself, my dear friend. You can do anything in this world. Don't you dare become a poet. You'll watch yourself bleed through a cut, and you'd stop yourself on the third chapter of a book titled Crimson Fury. Your pain will lose its reason as you try to write it out as a greater good. You will know misery— the kind you accept quietly because you can't seem to find the words. You will exist in the between: never quite it, but never not it either. Save yourself, my friend. They will tell you to be a soldier or a poet, but if you go deep enough down that path, you will learn that a pen is also a sword. You'll go insane, my friend— but not the kind that people figure out quickly and get you help. They'll merely think you are mad. It'll show up in the way you love, but never in the way you hate— because you'll lose your ability to hate and begin to understand. And that, perhaps, is the last phase of being mad.