These people make me sick
but they are just lovers of the first amendment so I'll let them be
I'm sorry I don't really care about when you rode a horse and felt infinite
That word makes me sick
It's been chained to a ******* truck and dragged on the dirt of the modernized human race
Infinite
*******

Is it sometimes we find ourselves stuck at the end waiting for the beginning
We don't really acquire ourselves ever when you think about it
I hate regular
I want that conformity and normal and routine and habit

Am I Buddha
Is this my enlightenment year
Is this where my adult thinking begins
Is this some kind of poetic puberty

Don't listen to me because I'm one of those ignorant-esque people who doesn't get the facts straight and can't finish a ******* crossword puzzle in the Sunday newspaper

I hate ignorant people but I know I am one
I'm just ignorant in ways that aren't ignorant
Am I different for writing that? Am I pushing my own uniquety?
Say what you think, I'm going to go eat cake

I have named one of my poem thingies on here
Ha ha ha
I guess I am a hypocrite, so feel free to stone me

This will be funny because if someone reads something I wrote on here they'll ask me about it
but wait I never named it
so how will I know which one they're talking about?
I won't.
I just like words as much as I like people, and that's really a lot

Maybe when I die no one will ever know that I wrote anything
I don't consider myself a writer
I'm not doing it to trend or be like my friends
I do it because I'm kind of my own mental prophet;
My brain unlocks itself and then whatever comes out, my body writes it down and people read it and they declare that I write but I wouldn't call this writing
I speak English
I don't like Oxford commas
But I really like reading words because inside every word there is another million words no one can see until they read the words
I also like fonts

Why do I have to name anything I write
It's just words on a page and the words should speak for themselves
God I really hate titles, they make me uncomfortable and nauseous

It's so ******* weird how inspiration happens to people
Some people are inspired by their dogs in the morning
Some people are inspired by that one song from their childhood that's playing in the grocery store
Some people hear a word and spell that word and then don't really appreciate that word until they've really seen the word for what it is
Some people put their inspirations on their bodies
Some people eat their inspirations and then save some of it so that others can eat it too
There are people around me that aren't inspired at all
And that makes me sad because sometimes my insides feel different after witnessing a life thing that's so imperfect it makes me feel perfect
I am not cocky
I am not for myself, nor against myself
I see things and read people and love people and meet people and recognize people and push through people and cry for people and watch people in their environments
If I am inspiring myself every day,
If I am inspiring enough to those humans around me who hug me and know my name and make me feel imperfectly perfect
I think we all can spark off each other
and keep going on