aflowerinbloom

I don't have the time or patience anymore to do these little things like typing or writing or creating. So I sit here once again, trying to turn water into wine. Or perhaps I'm more interested in the idea of someone actually reading this? I feel bloated, exploded, everywhere at once and I can't keep a lid on myself nor can I contain the madness that's driving me up the walls, and I fall back down again to the ground. I can't work on anything anymore, because I have too much at stake, yet so little to say behind a mountain of words that want to bust through the door. I don't want to plan anything I hate planning, so let myself run again like a river that's been closed off for centuries. I can't work on anything at once this is pure madness I can't spell out any other way, but to type it out, yet again. I can't explain what this feeling is so much frustration. But here, I'll try to push my thoughts out the window. I wish women were still interested in ME, but they only want

It's not about the name, it's about a knotted up bluesy tune strummed out of my strung out guitar bashed n' smashed onto the sidewalk, where the rain will undoubtedly drag it down down towards the sewer. So is that where my mind is now? The gutter? Yes. I feel so hopeless, I feel nothing. I feel like I'm dead inside. Yet still scared of people who will misread every word I type. I type so little now but I don't write as often either. I feel vacant, and cold, where is your god now? I cannot find a way, to have this make any sense. How long do I stretch it on? For as long as I can, before I off myself, and people read the signs, that were there a long time ago. I feel the visions of myself dying, tearing away at me. I see myself punching my own reflection, my own mirror. I see myself ripping myself silently to shreds, stomping on the floor like a little child, crying at the first cold word out of someone's lips. Floating away from my ears I push the words away they bat n' claw at my