palettes, switchblades and stilettos.

I am an artist, a creator, a dreamer. I wish to be more than I am and I wish that when I translate thoughts such as the previous, that my wishing would be elevated into doing. I am tired of being a walking and breathing woman; daily engagements, periods, visits to the store to stock up on survival supplies, hygiene, sex, relationships…… makes one so old. I am tired of the jail-cell of sweet deathly smoke that plagues me and highlights my day, and I am tired of my apparent un-focused passion. I am tired that I have taken the term passion by the book. I am tired of sitting hand in hand with the things that inspire me, the art that I could have created, when in my forming lies the potential of a talents that ostracized their ideas that perhaps could surpass them all. But my ideas remain pent-up, so who will ever see their effect outside of the correspondents in my mind? And, as I wrote that last bit, I am reminded that I am tired of burrowing inside my fake-narcissism and allowing myself to believe it to be happiness……….I am tired of believing in my talent, as its mention has become a dirty thing. It is, in fact, as un-used as a pair of $3,000 shoes. Am I afraid( as I would be for the shoes)to taint it? Perhaps. I am tired of allowing my ideas of revolution to lead my life, and they are, acting as a leader such as Hitler, miscalculating their surroundings constantly and causing me to act ridiculously in most situations…yes, my actions may have had different motivations than theirs, but the framework and impact is much the same.

It is true that my fervor for metaphorical things leads to bliss-prompting infatuation, but infatuation only gives me an excuse for more bouts of un-productivity. I should be better than I am, not in my presentation of daily activities but in my overall being. I will not ripe with age as others do, for most of my passion is channeled in the advantage I have over tired-minds. I am ripe now; age will only bring me bruises and short-term pleasant taste sensations. I live as a song for the damaged, a ballad of big nothing. I, like every other human, am stuck in the idea of being alive. I, unlike every other human, feel [in my delusional state] that I have been blessed with a key to escape the gray. The only problem is I am far too lazy to render the part of me needed to apply motivation to the keys working success. And, until something [not a punch in the face from he who generously lended me his sperm] eats at my flesh until I am tortured enough to escape my identicals, I will remain here.



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