untitled

I considered using carefully crafted prose,

lines of sterile complexity, to express

my lugubrious state, my agitated demeanor. 

But why use a scalpel, precise and exact language,

when I can use an old Exact-o knife,

blade pitted and fucked with years of misuse. 

F**k it.

this situation is too f*****g heavy

i'm exhausted from screaming into the bathroom mirror

telling myself this is where i want to be.

i can't decide what i should put between the covers of my pages

and i sure as s**t can't think of a title for this trainwreck

of a teen novel.

maybe i should try my hand at something other than writing

because i obviously haven't done the main character

of this goddamn mess

justice.

i should have written the ending years ago

but i decided to just let these endless pages trail on

and on

and f*****g on

and it gets so goddamned tedious.

read til the end

catch my next novel

another 365 pages of s**t upon s**t.

listen to me clear my throat

until it bleeds

and we all realize i have nothing to say

nothing to write

nothing to do with myself.

this book is nothing new

i've been done before

another carbon copy college graduate

who doesn't give a s**t.

let's all stand by and see how it all turns out

maybe the ending will redeem this mindless stream of consciousness

how the hell did this get published

but it will just be another year of the same.