I can't write anymore

Building up crumpled pages I can't write anymore. What always was a release, no longer mends what is torn. They ripped words out of my mouth like I'm ripping out these papers. They tell my story how they please stealing truth with ease to create their own convenient variations. I was shattered into pieces, my soul and my body broken, beaten. They take my remaining parts and give them out as though free samples to be eaten. Take me out of your conversation, the death of my identity is not a tool for your entertainment. There we go I'm writing again. Or am I just screaming while I crawl out of the pen? If the pen is mightier than the sword let me appear violent. Is this anger okay or should I stay silent?