Slipping Up

I read my writing more than anybody. I am intrigued by the likeness, by the uniformity in every peice. The sadness, dispare, that's all it is. I feel like crying all the time. I keep having dreams and dreams and dreams... and I look in my writing and it's there--the smallness, the general lacking. Nobody understands the metaphor behind my work, and if they do maybe they are truely attached to me. Maybe we breathed together once, but we stopped inhaling and now nobody wants to read me anymore but me.
I've said it five times, in five masculine contexts, I've meant it? I've meant it truely, passionatley once, when I never said it, the one who never knew was the one. It was never said, but it was there. Now, I think it drives me insane. I want to run away to New York because of it--it is here but it may as well be there, at least I hope it would be. I'd like to imagine I didn't screw it up, but it's eating me all the same.