why am i writing? I DON;T UNDERSTAND MYSELF ANYMORE. why should i be pretending i;m a poet?

so, put your fucking hand up if you;ve ever understood an entry at opaque88. if you did, drop me a line & tell me what the fuck i was talking about.

can;t do it? why not?

the best way to describe this is being passworded against myself. if you think i;m getting all the poison & venom & shit out of my system, you are SO FUCKING WRONG.

what is this then?

i see random words that made a nice sentence arrangement. i see holes where the letters aren;t allowed to breathe. i see what;s on the OUTSIDE but not the INSIDE. i see the FAKER i NEVER WANTED TO BECOME. i don;t write what i mean.

who reads them through anymore? who can get through an entry without a dictionary, thesaurus, & some fucking english scholar trying to interpret something from absolutely fucking NOTHING? i do.

who knows what this writing is about, or who it is about, or what i;m describing, or which supressed fucking memory i;m explaining. WHY can;t i be blunt. frank. no adjectives. use nouns normal people use. who am i protecting by dressing it up? no one needs to sort through layers to GET TO THE POINT. god, is there a point at all?

i hate writing.
i hate everyone who thinks they know the metaphor behind something you;re meant to be taking literally.
i hate being out of tune.
i hate falling in love with everyone else besides myself & their writing.
i hate writing to impress.
i hate making friends here who are never there for me, but make it all better by saying my writing is sylvia plath all over again.

I HATE DIARYLAND.

here i go again. last time ever. round #3. TELL ME IF YOU NOTICE THE DIFFERENCE.

music: the used; the taste of ink
mood: so fucking confused