"why can't this pen speak?"

my car broke down and I can't get home
it was the worst thing to happen
at the worst possible time
and I couldn't even tell anyone about it

I keep everything I don't want you to know inside
we get the small talk and casual conversation
nothing more than "I'm doing fine"
I pour my heart out on this paper

everything's getting worse with my mom
it's becoming all consuming, it's destroying me
I spend time not speaking to her and when I do
I feel like it's right or else I'd be missing out
but in some way it's wrong, like I'm justifying her acts

I wish I could deal with all the mental pain
I wish I could battle these demons away
if only I knew of a better way
than confessing it all with a pen to this notebook
if I could convey my thoughts into words
and share conversations with those affecting me
then maybe I'd be 30% better, maybe more
but it seems as if this pen will be the only way I ever know