You want masterpieces but I need time. My thoughts are formless luminescent snakes a flickering halo tiny fluid flakes I’ve no control of. It’s not in me to create a masterpiece right now I’m 16. Did Shakespeare show potential at 16? Did he win a golden key? Then why me?
Teach me the secrets of time and the universe. Whisper them sweetly as you ******.
I’ve nothing to say.
For years I will think of nothing and then one day maybe something and that will feel like a cold shower
Who’s the Brontë sister everyone forgets?
Does everything matter or nothing? Is it a crime to put my pen on paper without a meaningful idea does anything mean nothing or everything? Am I simply killing trees pontificating needlessly? Do my inky ponderings amount to wankings? What does it take in this modern age of information to do something great with a piece of pen and paper? I am wasting my day each day doing what you tell me from the minute I wake up at five fifteen to the moment I walk back through my door twelve hours later my day is structured around a list of concepts chosen for me by whom. Of what do I write of what I know if I know not and nothing I know Wordplay my wankings amount to hours I need to work on writing and wanking. My vocabulary is **** because I’ve no time for classics and all I do is watch Netflix.
Some people say to me often sometimes “I wish I was black.” and sometimes maybe what I want to say is “*******.” but what almost always I say is “Me too.” The mother who birthed me can be labeled only white my father spent his childhood playing on islands and together they made something truly neither this nor that and it always sometimes drives me mad.
Your face is a map that leads home to me. Mother may I lay down to sleep?
Pumpkin carvings in a row I’ve nothing to say for there’s nothing I know.