For weeks, all I wanted was to paint. It felt like the solution to nothing in particular, to particularly everything. The easel collects dust in the corner of my room now. An empty canvas rests upon it, mocking me for thinking I had an easy way out.
When I sit down in front of the mirror, deal a hand, (once for me, once for me) I find my opponent’s face to be unreadable. And I win, (I do every time we play) And I throw my cards down in front of me taking back the chips I’d raised. Again, I face the loser surprised by the bitterness on their face (though I really should expect it by now) And this time I wonder: is it worth winning if you always lose?
in the back sat a guy with long hair, and if you look at him he'd glare. but if you sit down, and upend his frown, you'll find he's not much of a scare.
Faster, faster, everyone’s already done. Quicker, quicker, seems you’re the only one. Think, think, I don’t know what that makes. Write, write, This was a huge mistake.