Why am i writing?

I'm getting sick of writing poems,
Sick of telling about my tragic love life,
Yet the poems keep coming,
This ink is the blood from an emotional knife.

I've made so many bad decisions,
I have so many regrets,
I've destroyed my own happiness and others,
Creating more and more emotional debts.

I'm writing once again,
Letting the pain flow through the ink,
In an attempt to channel my emotions,
As the pain gets to me the more I think.

Will I ever stop writing?
Will the pain go away?
Am I to sit here and write forever?
Has love completely gone astray...

I am only the age of thirteen,
Yet have so much to write,
Have so much emotion...
So I sit here...till late at night.

I was never a great fan of poetry,
Not exactly a "cool" thing,
But it helps with the problems,
The sense of understanding it can bring.

I think and think,
And write and write,
Trying to understand,
Understanding with all my might.

I don't know what to do anymore,
I've lost all sense of wrong and right,
Lost all sense of emotional direction.
Everything dissolved into the night.