Just a wannabe writer living off of coffee stains imprinted on white collared shirts and hardwood floors where legends have scraped their toes across in frustration,
Just a wannabe writer injecting the needle onto the paper brewing up a concoction of anecdotes and memories revolving around the screech of nails on a chalkboard,
Just a wannabe writer seeking inspiration from the unknown destinations of pleasure, where the universe can fit in a vacuum syringing the leftovers into a paper bag recycling itself into glass infected pools of alcohol,
Just a wannabe writer discovering sanctuary in between lines of twisted thorns disguising as a rose sprayed with the perfume of sanity forced to attention in a straight line across a blank field of oblivion where all that ever was and can be is a
Wannabe writer
