Writer's Block Sucks.

Here. i didnt even think about anything while I wrote this, much less what came out of my mouth. I wanna post it to see if I can fathom it later.


Don’t go bibbilty over thigns you cant contorl. For instance, this incecant whine that drowns out the furious glares of my coke cans and clothes which disperse the visibility of my floor. Or is that music? For love, I can’t figure out which, yet it appears I am glued to this chair, hoping, praying that writing my internal monolouge will spark whatever dregs of creativity I have left in my medicinaly meddled bog brain. I spend too much time doodling, my juices run dry as a cat’s fur. Dry dry dry dry. But I must.. I have commited myself to completely turning over all that is in me, to find the story that I know I must tell, will tell. I have my best inspirational music, books, music, drawings, music and chat windows open and reciving. Yet nothing comes. Words bubble and dribble throughout this weak thing I call a soul. Kiss kiss didnt see it coming but you cant help but hope for the hearts freedom. Migalicutty words tumble from my fingers, yet nothing concrete I can use. Nothing nothing nothing. Automatic flowers won’t do! Tis a poor excuse for love, my flowers, but its all I have to go on. My ice cold hands long to recive the praise I oft give themy, when they make a good thing pop into my mind when they help me, instead of (like today) skitter and scatter my keys till it looks like they will jump up and dance and taunt me till I can think round. And the letters rerarrange until whaft I be saying aint clear- I’m using words from my own personal inner monolauge now. Soon show you won’t be able to scarely comprehend what I dribble over. Taste my dissastisfaction it’s on my tounge yet its too thick and hot and sticky. Comod for the lady, meep. Aright lets rein things back to the warp in spacetime I call me and others call she. See the insaity that oozes through my eyes and into yours? See how it makes me less and less a girl and more and more an extemsion of the slave to the words that cuts and cuts and cuts everything down from her imagination till nothings left but smoke and tears. This is writing what’s on my mind, my morbid miffle muffin mind that moorodes with the marroon meekrats that miss me. Pft! For lo I say! To keep this up is Sparta, to hope for joyous excuses to use again and again until I am not only a slave to these words but a slave to all that these words mean- which is to say, not much- but still hope to see the goldylocks rays of good story. Buttercake and too much coffee makes me a mental case, which everyone wants to diagnose and poke and bleed and watch but what no one can figure out whats wrong. Truth is, I’m not wrong you are. Your wrong. You hide your humanity behind a cloud of expectation and love and I am not bothers by such bibbldy convictions for I am a monster, I am a slave, I am everything but one of you. I am mabye me, mabye Molly, mabye something else in its entirety, but I can say that that does not bother my yiyness. I can spare say what I am saying for the insanity has worn off- to say, that is, the pills,- and the scary fun fun bit comes in the bit where I do shit just to do shit again as opposed to nothing at all expect pathetic scratches at something diffrent than this madness.