Dec 2018
I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind. Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.
I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind. Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.
I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
