I am thinking
I am not writing
I need to be writing what I am thinking
I should be inspired
I am not inspired
I am not inspired to do anything
-at work, at home, at life-
I want to be writing
I want to be writing the way I used to
I am thinking too much about what's happened to me
I am obsessed with thinking and not talking
-Talking gets in the way of thinking and I think too fast for me to talk-
-Talking really fast is how I get it out and there isn't a comma to separate my thoughts from the others ones-
-Punctuation gets in the way sometimes-
I am remembering what used to inspire me
-And it doesn't inspire me anymore. It's trite and I don't like it.-
Should I be worried about this crack in my wall?
Will my house of cards come crumbling down around me?
I want to make art that means something. Something I can be proud of.
Art doesn't happen anymore the way it used to for me.
Where did the Art go? Where is the warmth in art?
Warm. Hot. Cold. Chilly.
When it gets chilly, will I be cold and alone?
Nobody there to keep me warm?
"Behind that cheeky, cheeky smile was a sad, sad man..."
Why do I consider the past?
I am considering my past the way one should consider the lobster.
I am a mess.
I am prone to lashing out at what upsets me.
I am upset. I will lash out.
My dreams bother me.
My dream last night was more real than they've been in years.
I felt warmth in the comfort of arms in my dream.
My best friend's arms.
I could use a hug from those arms. But they're miles and miles away.
I am sad; as if you couldn't tell.
