run my fingers through my hair
eyes tired from too many hours trying too hard not to care
drag my hand across my face
grasping at poems about rebels, walls, deaths & outer space
this crippling feeling isn't fair
and it really is
shifting back and forth
author /
critic
different styles of poetry
i'm not used to this ... inability.
god i hate selfconscious writing but
i can't not...
at this point i've been pondering relevent quotes from the background music to use so:
"say it ain't so / i will not go"
quietly into that good night?... of silence.
i'm trying. it's like trying to relearn to ride a bicycle.
spelling bicycle always gave me problems. the i and the y... and of course i'd like to think everyone else does it fine just so i can be special but that's stupid.
the author/critic break is SO pretentious... agh. i look at it and it's terrible but then i don't want to ... go back... i'm pissed off because i usually don't stumble, don't edit and that's gone and... augh. (i was going to write aurgh.) so my saving grace (recourse, i don't even know what that means) is to just ... write what i think afterwards instead of using it to edit... which taken to its logical extreme produces all sorts of typos and grammar aerros and it gets impossible to rea (see past sentecne)_
wow that's bad. god.
k i'm done.
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