writing

I can not write, for fear of taking the words and clotting the pen that strokes the paper. I am a liar, and it is not right to let the lies break free from this levee in my brain. I fear that functioning has become a sole purpose, and that writing has become excess. I am a failure of sorts, though it's never been set outright. I can see it in eyes, and hands, and hearts. They stare, and I know that they've been right all along. My pen is just a crutch. So much for getting out there, living and experiencing. So much for being a writer. My ego consumes my thoughts, and no one wants to read about the thoughts of a pompous ass. I once called myself Creator. I once drew parallels between me and God. Who wants to read what I have to write? I am a liar, and when I write I speak of love, and infinite gateways. There is nothing that becomes worth reading when I write, because my pen and my thoughts are clotted with blood. I choke the throat that gasps for air and requires mercy because I think of myself first. I am always working to make myself bigger. I've become the world's Boss Tweed. I want to be richer, and to exploit, and degrade. I want to cut out from underneath them the cherry-tree trunks that most of those fuckers call legs. Run everyone, and put your guns to your shoulders. Take aim and shoot me down before I pick up a pen and write! There seems to be a little bit of vodka in my system, and when I write that all comes out, and I realize my failure. What I say has no bearing on the world as a whole, and my thoughts die out before I have a chance to set them right. I live a lot of lies, or at least that's what other people tell me. I try to ignore their voices, but it's hard when they've been right all along. The words I write die out like the flowers every winter. There is no solace to my insides when all my viscera become knotted. Choke like umbilical Neuse hanging from inside of a cavern, and let my words take your breath away. I am more of a vain person than Warren Beatty, and I know that my sick words will bring that to light. Let me expel the rumors here and now. I am not talented. I have seen more talent in a teenage girl's diary where she's venting about the boy that turned her down for prom. I am not gifted. I've seen more promise from the autistic kid that I used to hang around with. I am not special or different, or immune to this shit. What hurts most when I write is that it's not my own. It's the same damn thing that someone else said; only I have found that they said it better once long before I ever did.