Ripped

I pour my troubles out onto this page
And watch them form congealed spots of distress.
I tear them all to pieces in my rage
Forgetting that I'll have to clean the mess.
I cry and see the teardrops stain the white
Then weep again because the paper's wet.
I slip around the damp spots as I write
Not waiting 'til they're dry or even set.
After I write, I stroke the page and sigh
Imagining my troubles have flowed out
Into the paper, but I know that I
Will still be wracked and tortured by my doubt.
And so I ask myself, why write at all?
Ah, otherwise, I fill myself with gall.