I get out of bed convinced writing is all I’ve got and everyone I know thinks I’m crazy, tossing a match on my life. But I’ve always did it my way even if it comes to naught. The dreams of an idiot lived out in full colour. Nothing to do now. Sit back, enjoy, fire has always been dazzling.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
Comments
Post a Comment