Well shit

Ah, my last refuge of talent has been stripped of me. I am now, talentless, lost in a fog of pills. I shall watch as the soul drips out of me unto the floor, where some child will happen upon it and perhaps use it better than I could have imagined. I reached into that dark corner of my mind, the one full of worlds and characters, screaming to be let free. Nothing. It is empty, blank, filled with cotton.
I am done. The hopes and dreams I shared are done. I will never write, or draw, or imagine again. I have been robbed of my imagination, replaced instead by a haze of happy.

Sweet ignorance, let me forget!

I have reached a conclusion

the lowest of low points in my life, I had no depression pills, and it was threeish in the morning.

I'm too hot-
molten lava drips across my skin.
I'm too cold-
my heart feels ready to stop beating.
I'm too awake-
my stomach lurches, my limbs twitch.
I'm too asleep-
I haven't moved for hours.
I'm too quiet-
I don't say what matters most.
I'm too loud-
I say what you don't want to hear.
I think its too late for me,
that girl
the one who's glassy eyed and wanders
unseeing
but who always sees too much.

its old. Old enough that I didnt know ow to use a semicolon. Yet this untitled poem remains some of my best work, ever.
depression sparks creativity.

Why cruel internet!?

100s of free_______ my ass!
^
fill in the blank

I need a piano teacher. I got a keyboard for Hanukah, and I still cant play it. I just sit with it, for hours, touching the keys and losing myself in the pretty little noises they make. I can play a few songs but I have no idea individually what they mean. The keys.

A new portal of insanity has been breached. I want my little pillcup!!!!

Murhk

Blergh. Pain.

Love you Andy!

Valentine's Day, Year Two of Four Letter

Kiss my lips as they melt off my face and into the drain i love you i love you why is it that I am cursed to love you you are not the lover I imagined yet you are so perfect and soft and god its like living down and sideways by the way did you notice there is a shortage of what I’m not sure. Can you feel the life leaking again? Get that looked at, I mean now. As I drip and droop onto the realm of sleep and dreams I taste lucky charms and happiness and tomorrow I will try and try and try to drown whatever I have left to drown as for a fact I cannot live without it. Whittle the wigs for you have no idea anymore, I have no idea anymore, and the love in my soul is flying and sparkling but not like Edward like real sparkles that mean happiness and frosting. As I said, kiss kiss kiss all I think about yet all I wish not to think about for the fact that I am not supposed to I am supposed to be good and nice and not nothing other than three years old and cute and fat and cuddly. I want nothing more than to kiss. I want to not want. Let us rest now for I have fallen asleep twice now and my stomach grumbles and I am done.

Re: Your Pretentiousness

So You Want To Be A Writer. ><>

Well, mister, I have something to tell you. I want to read what you have written. It is shit. How do I know this, you ask? BECAUSE I KNOW YOU ARE NOT A REAL WRITER. It is HARD. Really really really fucking oh my god will it ever end hard. Yet we keep slogging away. Why? Because we love it. It's our passion. If the only good writing, in your opinion, is the writing which comes pouring out of us, unedited, unshown to everyone and their mailman, undoubted, unstalled for hours as we search for a single word, then you are wrong. Good morning, mister writer! You are not God. What comes spewing out of your facehole is not gospel. Writing must be edited, then edited some more, then revised, then revised some, then shown to everyone in the known universe so they can edit and revise and completely change your plot.

You say to us who spend hours staring at our screen in frustration, to us who run every adverb by our girlfriend, to us who spend days at a time unable to continue, that our writing is bad. You say it is bad. BAD B-A-D. Plain. Boring. WHAT?! We spend years cultivating and perfecting our art. We are the keepers of a almost forgotten secret. 

WE ARE WRITERS.

You are not perfect. I am not perfect. Hell, no-one has EVER published an unedited just-came-spewing-out-my-head rant. Show me one. ONE. 

No luck? Because we need to make our writing good. We sweat, we bleed, we cry to struggle and slog through out hazy jell of cousiousness to write what we know to be within us. We don't sit and have stories come pouring out. Sometimes, sure, you'll get inspired and yell for a pen and paper to jot down ideas, but rarely do we just sit down and write and entire anything, mistake free. Actually, we never do that.

In layman's terms, in case I used to many grown-up words for you:

Fuck you and your horrible writing, mister.

John Breaux

Ok, so he was burried yesterday. I felt I should write a tad about him.

John, I saw you almost everyday, riding around on your bicycle, collecting trash and smiling. I couldn't even really get to know you, the only coherent words you would utter were "hot dogs" and "spaghetti sure is good, eh?". But it was the things you didn't say that meant the most to Louisville. You kept us clean. Every day, you rode around town, trash in one bag, recyclables in another, keeping us sparkling come rain, snow or shine. You smiled at all of us, and we smiled back. When you got hit on the side of the road by that drugged up hippy, the entire town cried. You know there's a GIANT roadside memorial for you, right?
The doctors said you were schizophrenic, but I KNOW that's not it. Sure, you couldn't talk or write or really do much, but you were nice and kind and did what you could to help us all out. We gave you food, free repairs and coffee. You gave us our town idiot and cleanliness.
Goodbye, John. RIP.

WHEEEE

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Well Fuck

I have nothing to write. The wormhole is being clogged. Argh.

I will show you the first line, however.

Not "saved" like Jesus saved, like NOT DEAD saved.

Only some people can be saved. Please do not ask us to save your child.
-Make-A-Wish foundation's FAQ