So sick of getting discouraged by the way my own hands write lies for no body but my eyes alone to see. I do not create metaphors in the way I speak for interpreters to breathe.  I may have forgotten how to write but god these words still whisper in my dreams. "WE GET IT POETS, THINGS ARE LIKE OTHER THINGS" a stranger in the audience yells in the middle of my memior , I am sorry sir but you are an ******* like that of the gods greatest devils and I pray that you will stop. I should stop, but I have ink in my veins, and my smiles are composed of similies.I have a voice as small as a mouse but as loud as a lion. I look up at the stars and all I see are fallacies, oh god, look at the red herring. The constellations are making fun of me. How I wish I were a book so at least I'd have a spine. I cower in the land of fiction novels hiding from the people that are better than me. I know I'll never have the taste of Walt Whitman or face the horrors of Mr. poe but ******* how I want to. I'm afraid that if I don't figure out my purpose as a writer I'll forget how to speak to you and we'll grow apart like leaves on a tree in winter so glue a pen to my palm and make me dance and hopefully words will relearn how to waltz across the page. Its the very fiber of my being and I can no long use this double helix as a crutch.