How the fuck did I get here.
One more fucking night with my head on this blue crackity ass pillow and I'm gonna start my own fucking riot.
From the tone set here, you probably think I'm angry--or more so from the cussing, really.
Maybe I am; maybe this feeling of a swirling fire burning between my lungs is rage, and not chronic heartburn I can never get treated. Maybe it's not due to laying in bed all day, locked up and home with a poor diet and mommy/daddy issues.
Maybe it's not the heartburn burning through every fiber of my esophagus, it's anger, burning through my heart. Regardless of the fact that I'm actually laying in bed, Maybe it's not that bile, good old hcl, liquefying everything in its path in the wrong direction, maybe it's madness, liquifying every rational thought I could have and making me pour it out in words;
In ink and saying the best places to place this shit is places where people see.
Where people can tell me what it means, to me or to them because I don't have a say in what my words mean
that is up to the
reader
And the possibility that I will never be able to do this for me is painful and enraging but the possibility that
I can do this for other people
Am doing this for people not me
Regardless of
What I want to do it
For
Is
Somewhat encouraging,
In a selfish way
To do something selfless
Is selfish in its own sense
But maybe staying silent
Like this, keeping it
All to myself
Is even more
Selfish
And somewhat vile
YOU ARE READING
untitled story
RandomJust some scraps i wrote when i was young, dumb and bored. A lot of it is just super cynical, and it's easy to differentiate between the old ones and newer ones. None should be too taken seriously, as they are dug from old notebooks and deep in a d...
