I’m so tired 

of putting off the creative juices in my veins,

wanting to write the words running through my brain on to a paper with a pen.

Unifying my thoughts like a marriage in holy matrimony, 

bounding my words and tying everything together like a sex slave,

writing the emotions I have

ideas I have

moments I go through

memories, good and bad

things that I’d like to remember when I’m 40 and reminiscence on all my drunk kisses, tear stained pillows, and shared secrets only 4 am knew about.

Re-live all my first time experiences, and remember the jolts of emotions I was feeling at the time. Whether I was mad, happy, nervous, excited, awe-struck. I wan’t to remember how it felt like to be introduced to something new. 

I wan’t see how I’ve grown and matured, like fine wine, only getting better with age. 

How the different paths I took in my life, helped form the person I became. 

And how that difficult maze is ever growing, never really ending, but only getting easier to figure out as I age.

I want to look back and see that young spirit, raving about how the world needs to change, and hope that it’s still alive in me. 

I want my writing’s to be my therapy. A drug more addictive than speed and heroin. I’ll be addicted to the the feelings I get when I know I’ve written something good, something from the heart, something pure, something real. Something that can help empower one person, and break someone else into tears. 

I want my writing’s to be private. I wan’t my writing’s to be public. I don’t want the world to see the weakest side of me. I want to meet other people with the same interest as me.

I want to change into a better me. A successful me. A empowered me. A happier me.


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