If I was talented enough and brave enough to bare my soul to the pages of a book for the world to read and analyze, I would be the world's stupidest son of a bitch.
I've read so many good books that make you feel things. That make me feel real emotion and actually contemplate if maybe dealing with other people is worth if it means I get to experience a relationship with someone that knows me.
And I actually think to myself, I'm not too terribly bad at writing, maybe I could give it a try. Get the world to understand my point of view and live through my experiences and have my thoughts and emotions as they read what I've written because it belongs in this order for a reason.
Then I remember, that I am the most boring person I could ever think of. Why would anyone want to experience what I go through? Hell, I don't even want to experience what I do, I don't even like me, so why would I expect someone else to go through this?
All my angsty little teenage feelings, even though I'm two years past being a teenager, don't matter not jack shit to anyone but me. And I could care less about my own emotions, spoken like a true self-deprecating whore.
God do I not like myself.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts and Ramblings of Me
PoetrySooo this is more like a diary of sorts. Just a way to clear my head. You're welcome to read but it probably won't entertain you much.
