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The Height of My Writing.


Submitted:Jan 4, 2011    Reads: 26    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


I feel like a piece of lard on the side of a big ol' nasty piece of pork in the morning. I feel useless and like I am to get nothing done. I hate the morning. Every morning I feel the same way. So lazy, so underappreciated. I don't know how to start my day. I should take a shower but I have so much stuff I feel I need to accomplish. I could leave all my work to the hands of those who are already doing a good job. But there needs to be more. There is never enough out there.

The hell this world is always in. The hell my world and my people are always in. The torture they live today in school amongst bullies and hateful teachers. They can't even find support in mature adults. You know, the wise ones won't even take a moment to preoccupy their time to help a flawless soul in this salty sea of dry and stale.

To many contradictions that are waiting to unfold. A ton of confusion waiting to unleash itself like the rusty spikes on a bear trap ready to give infection to a man lost naked in the scent of pines and the sounds of starvation coming from the belly howls of wolves. The man will lay there for a day or two and maggots will infest his wound. And the wolves will come and eat him. The man will not scream. He is to weak for that. And also too good.

And that is how most people are. They are too good for this world. They will not cry. They will only mock the same flock of flies under the light that they belong to. They believe they are better than the millions of black cluster fucks that circle the thousand light bulbs that are in the city. Amongst nearly a million cities. Than the light goes out. And again you find yourself lost. Alone. You had your chance to get to know your colleagues, your peers, your co-workers. But now it is dark and you are once again, always alone and nothing but a fly.





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