This is unstructured and messy as hell. It reads disjointedly, will probably sound jumbled and wrong,
but that is a pretty accurate portrayal of how I feel right now (at time of writing). This is probably the most accurately autobiographical thing I've ever produced.
It never comes.
straight backed and puppy-eyed,
accepting and welcoming,
Of the thing that promises life,
To the words in your brain and the itch of your fingers,
But it never comes.
So you try again,
The next day, with a different idea,
In a different place
Sitting with the same eager posture,
to welcome the angel of the written word,
That promises gold, rubies, diamonds of praise,
But delivers none but the bitter taste in your mouth,
And an undeniable sense of perpetual failure.
So you try to copy,
Copy someone’s words,
words so personal to them,
And the copying makes you mentally vomit,
Because those words are not your own words,
And they are full of emotional pretence that
it makes you sick.
So you turn to sound,
The melodies and sounds and screetching harmonies of
Men you don’t know
But wish you did,
But even their words cannot
Spark the fire of the imagination,
Inside your tired brain
So you sit in your room,
And you coil.
Coiling into a spring of tense hatred
For all those people who can but
Do not deserve to, because
You cant do it, dammit, how can other people
Do something that you cant do.
You sit on your bed that is too big for the tiny room,
Journal in hand,
In its facetious leather casing,
And it is empty.
The words are strewn around the room in clouds of mocking promise,
Grasping hopelessly at something that will never come,
I am uninspired.