In my own mind.

I will never be able to understand the mind of a writer.
I thought I was a writer. Once upon a time.
But I am really a complete nobody.
A self encompassing disease and detriment to the purity and nature of earth.
I am a failure.

Writers are inspired by adversity and a willingness to overcome defeat.
But not me. Because I'm not a writer.

Disheartening as a broken relationship that was never meant to be, today I lost all sight of positivity.
When I think about it, there should not have been any positivity in the first place.

Why am I even thinking about first place?
Last place is the only place. If any place.

To have a place you have to have a destination.
A journey to nowhere is what my life is based on.

I won't even call it a base. Nothing is holding onto me. I am floating in a sea of no purpose.

Is it the way I eloquently place these words together that makes me who I am?
There I go using the word place again.


I have to use words because that is the only way I can paint my world.
Don't worry about an array of colors. I only care about blue.
One language. One color. One man.

I will never find my place because I want to be everywhere.
I want to be a part of you. And you. And even you.

I am as flawed and I am grand.
Actually more flawed than grand. But I'm working on it. Progress is infinite.

My voice echos in my room because it is empty.
It is lifeless. Myself included. Life is only as valuable as you make it.
I just haven't done anything with mine.

I am a writer after all.
In my own mind at least.

Save the last word

Hypersexualized. Hyperadvertised. Hyperdissatisfaction.

Prefixed and suffixed to oblivion, English in its infinite glory can not always depict the fullness of the human condition.

I am bound by it.

It is art in the form of words. Form itself is limited. I inform the uninformed.
Vagueness is a strand that hangs as I redefine the Self.

Humble is meaningless to the narcissism I am born with.

One less mind to fill. Bottomless and unable to withstand the rush of flowing data.

Destinations as pointless as the fresh pencil. But the journey is incomplete.
Will it end?

Outlet of expression.

I hate myself to the point that I want to become invisible.
But I live on. Off is never a good look. And my 20/20 vision is all I have.

This is the song that never ends. Five thousand minutes of endless chorus.
No one is willing to make it stop. And my ears cannot be covered.

Guilt trip is only one way. No need for ticket authorization. Or bag checks.
I'm already there.

Welcome to Lost. I can find myself. But It's all fake.

Erase the permanent damage as the impossibility becomes a loop of failure.

A tear in the Matrix like a tear on my face. Words are meaningless without a direction.

I have no where to go. But stopping would be all too easy in this life of hard.