found via hondasniper
These days it's so difficult.
I am not endlessly searching for the words anymore. Those perfect words that make a story more beautiful than it should ever be are written by someone else. I am not pursuing the joie de vivre as properly as I should. I am not moving. I am not fresh, but a stagnant fish in a farmed pond. The flesh you eat is rotten and full of worms. A headache of black swamp water that is not even drinkable.
I am not inspired. I am not in love. The worms I want to consume are supposed to take a heart of me, the part that will turn rainbows black and white and the monotonous flashes into color. The drenched world will come back to life, and I will find hope once more. But I am not inspired. I am not in love with these words. I have no one to write for, not even myself. Not when I have never loved myself properly.
I am frightened. At most my skills have been dulled to the senses of bullets and cars. In awe, I am the deer in the headlights, and the buck desensitized to danger. I have become a plaque on your wall, where I am worth more never living than barely alive.
