02.06.2009

Get ready for the ramble:

Understandable sometimes just translates to unacceptable. I work and work but still end standing, waiting for scraps to tumble from this table. Worthlessness. Thats the name of this feeling creeping up my crumbling throat. My stomach turns. Lonely but not alone. We've all been there, I know. I fill books and pages and napkins with the things that live inside of me. I draw ugly and you call it cute. Such a social butterfly these days. Who knew you could just slap wings on a slug and pass it off? I thought they were only useful for wasting salt, but it seems that the salt, when strategically placed, makes like medicine and kicks coffins out of graves. Yet still I'm here, rotting in secret like a serial victim. I guess we technically all die in the end, right? I've carved my name on cavern walls. I've left my mark, no matter how wobbly the writing. I'm not done by any means, but I feel that if I had to be, I could be. Call me old fashioned, but back in my day actions spoke louder than the things we say. My hands shake for something to keep them busy. My mind, oh, I don't even know where to start with that bastard. Swaying back and forth between creative metaphor and blatant truth. I can't focus. This will tell you everything or nothing. I guess what it really boils down to is that I'm feeling lonely and uninspired. 24 going on 60. I wish I could just live my life, but it always seems like its living me.