Girl you make my skin crawl, like a bunch of worms squirming through dirt, you get underneath and eat where I hurt. Burrowing yourself deep inside, you turn yourself into butterflies, free in my stomach with no place to hide. Then up into my brain you will fly, lay your eggs behind my eyes, go out my mouth and let yourself die, knowing my future is with you in my mind

This room is too loud
I'm not trying to meet all these people right now
I'd rather be outside sitting cold on the ground
Just go away, strange angers my brain range

I can barely breathe when they surround me

I'm imagining infinite instances, inspiring insatiable insanities, inside implausibly intrinsic ideas, increasingly infiltriating inner ideals

What are you doing?
Have you not a clue at all?
Being on high all the time is a short fuse away from wasted life, and its a round about way to pretend you are right.
You stay up all night because you can't sleep, and its eating at your conscience every hour of the week like you're the all night dinner from down the street

I wish I could join you there in a dream, though I'm sure you don't know what I mean, but here I lie with wide restless eyes, trying to keep it all inside, and I'm sweating slightly with a little shake.

You make me feel so awake

I used to think I was a writer, but now I know I've become a fighter. My words are my weapons, with enough ammo for everyone who eats them to come back for seconds. My wit is cool, my tongue sharp as a blade, I fire from the hip, taking down anyone in my way

The mind of a writer is like the body of a prize fighter. It always ends up getting beat around, and every once in a while it gets knocked down, yet every time it finds its way back to its feet, because nothing but death can make it accept defeat