I’m never satisfied. I will leech off of you until you are an empty vessel of compassion and I am full of apathy. You will give me everything and I will willingly take it knowing that I won’t love you anymore. I feed off of my interest like a self sustaining *****, not knowing what to do with myself at times. I’m not going to tell you I’m sorry. Because I’m not. It’s you who should be sorry for yourself.

This pen and paper feeds a hungry mind. A mind that's driven by thoughts that drive the deprived. The deprived mind is a mind which is filled with inconsistencies. Inconsistencies of ideas that were never finished. Finished ideas reap rewards only I can understand. Understanding the motives of finishing ideas is difficult for me to process. Processing endings for me is like trying to get a dog to chase an invisible ball. A ball which is full of non-existent closings. A close is something I can never agree with myself on. On the end of a page is something that never occurs to my mind. A mind that is deprived. Deprived like the end of th