you’d think in London, an unfamiliar and wild place, I would find inspiration in everything but alas, I have found none
writing has become so integral to my life that I sense changes, in myself, when I cannot make them
a man puts a bag above me my sister twiddles her thumbs women too old or too pretty for me are everywhere but two perfect ones are in the next section up my hand writing is messy it’s warm in here it’ll be cold at 30,000 feet
why can’t I write about all of that?
I get angry or annoying when I can’t write
I sometimes put bars on my I’s sometimes not
I tell everyone else my thoughts
my friends, my family, my mom, my dad, my sister, my hobo on the street, my anything else but the page
yet the page is the only one that doesn’t go “shush”
a lady texts someone was working below the toilet I’ve got a **** week ahead the exit sign is interesting to me my music speaks to me too much now a days