from the twentys to the throat.

in my very own periodical war, i sense your presence drawing in.
"draw out, write in." grunted the mechanical secretions, but i,
refused to listen.
and this, in it's very own simplicity,
is what i deserve for being so selfish.
it gives me chills, you know, the urges and cravings just to tap upon
some machine. i want it, and i do it- but where does it get me? what do i bring
but procrastination? i want nothing of school, houses, homes- i want my own
feet, heart, mind, brain; flowing together with ever single fiber of my inspiration.
its real sad when you're real sad to be alone.

"i want to be a writer, an actress, a symbol of the gods."