I'm not feeling myself tonight.

My fingers are itchy, frantic with a rising anxiety

fueled by the bitter ink that I have denied in my blood.

Those former words that have been the creation of the nerves under my fingertips,

they have left me exhausted.

For I have cared for them, nursed them into

sunsets of leaving tommorrows, 

into rubies of the inside of my mind.

They ultimately have left me with the gross taste of dissappointment in my mouth.

I am fearful that the world have stunted my ability, 

my love for stories by giving me some that I don't want to remember. 

It's different when it's far away places.

It's different when ignorance and fear looks you straight in the face, 

kisses you sloppy and slick then raises its gun.