I tried to write a book but I'm not a good writer. I tried to paint a portrait but doodles look like everyone. I've tried to speak and convey who I really am, all I see are blank expressions. I'm trying to think but I can't stop long enough to formulate a descent thought. Solitude is looking like a blessing, I'm dependent on the bad and risking my future. I've soaked it up, taken it in, now there's nothing left and I wonder; why it can't love me back? I'll forget it only for a minute like that good book on my shelf. I'll come back to it someday only to find that the cover is worn out, the pages have been folded and a note about how fucked up we all are is written on every page. I'm full of empty, high at night and blessed in the morning. I miss me.
(circa 2009)
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