Zippy zip zizzzzzzzzzz
I am a wiz.
Gallop, gallop you hateful shrew - push me over, tell me I never knew
Right from wrong, right from left - - - -
Spite from bite and head from breast - - -
You can say it all to me
but I'll have you know
that I know that you know
If I try and write the most amazing work I possibly can, I would never get any writing done.
I just have to write like me and trust it is good enough.
A fortune in the dirt.
A fortune of of bones for the men on top who sleaze and ooze through wretched Armani shoes...
Pasteurized news at the hands of the few that knew the real story that reporters were silenced with wads of floppy green.
Nothing is as it seems.. . . .
so far away.....
I Hate Myself :D give me a job plz
I seem determined to stay miserable.
You know, some people can channel this misanthropic shit into art.
It appears that I am not one of those people.
Christmastime in the Hollow
Elves and smells of magic surround
Sweet tastes like butterflies on dew
The only thing missing is you
Le me tell you the story of a man with no ideas -
He goes through his days waiting for one because he's decided he's an artist and by golly, he'd have a great idea one day.
But then he was trapped inside his brain, waiting and waiting for a day that would never come - he worked his idle, privileged hands away all day on mediocre little crumbs.
He was going to be an artist, by golly he was, so he sat there, waiting for a half-decent idea to come.
Pity this man because he's blind - impossible to see he'd be better off canning crab parts in a factory.
The keyboard callous on my left palm is HUGE
I didn't write a single word today.
Except these. I wrote these.
Sweet Jesus I have so many dead skin cells to clean up
A mole took a bite of the wrong plant and within seconds the world was psychedelic.
A hiker on a park path saw the mole and thought it was dead; laying feet up, twitching and convulsing.
Little did he know that the mole was having its mind BLOWN
Dullness as I walk through the streets of defeat
No one I meet seems to look me in the eye
Or even lift their gaze from the patchy stone ground
The ground is cold and unfeeling. Like the stale air, cool, buffeting, relentless, uncaring.
The well-trod path is made with broken soles of broken souls...
She stirs. I wonder if anyone knows.
A piece of heart was lying in the middle of the street
I saw it in red glimpses against the grey background of buildings and people - both hollow with the vacuum of grey.
The small color was a welcome sight -
Red brighter and more stark than a stoplight in this cold, grey world.
I was urged closer to the only color for miles around
When I saw it was a piece of heart laying on the ground
I stood over the red bits of heart as the grey sea of people parted and fused around me without raising those damned heads of theirs.
I wondered if color and beauty only existed because violent grey had won the day.