brooklyn tough || random

(oh yeah it's just a writer's) block

There's a story before and there will be stories after, in a few minutes, and tomorrow, and even when we're long gone and turned to dust, even when the skies forgot our name and the moon has found new stupid kids to watch over at night.

There will always be another story, and I, I am not good enough with words anymore to be able to write it. I don't care. I don't care anymore, listen, I don't care. I'm empty, in every sense of the word. Empty of words, empty of love, empty of feelings and yes you're right when you say that I don't feel, and I do- yes I feel (but only like I forgot how to feel.)

And I'm sorry. I know; I know my mouth is empty too and these words are just lonely shadows of the pride I once spoke with. No. It doesn't mean shit.

It's split up in two. I'm split up in two. I am an empty shell and at the same time so full of the world.

But that's not my story to tell. I'm not good enough anymore. And no; it really is not my story to tell.

I just miss myself, and apparently, I miss you more.