I can never seem to live up to my own expectations.
There's a person in my head I wanna be, but I'm not that. I can't even become a figment of my own mental creations.
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What I write is never what I thought. What I said was never what I meant.
Constantly I'm fighting to better than I am, constantly I'm wondering where me, my inspiration, my heart went.
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I see the open road and I wanna go.
I feel a breeze, just give me a push, and with it, I know I can blow.
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I lost love, I lost inspiration. I lost me. People told me who to be.
To find myself again, I have to do something I never thought I'd do. I have to make that journey.
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I know what I want one day, but I don't know what I want now. Am I proud of myself today?
Will I be pleased to publish this, that one, the other and this one, if I may?
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'Confused, doubting myself, fuck—what is this I'm even writing?'
Persistent thoughts in my head that never end - it's not good enough, you can do better - the words never more do my own a-biding.
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I'm blocked, does that make sense?
I am my own blockage, I question myself, my writing... but I don't do that. Fuck it, let's make that sentence past tense.
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I remember why I started writing. Things always look and hear better in my head than they do in real life.
Sex on screen, love in reality, hell, the only example I've had is the kind of husband my dad was to his wife.
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But with a sentence on a piece of paper, I could rewrite the story, write something beyond me, beyond her, beyond him—
Fuck, I created magic, life, and I didn't even have to worry about a condom.
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But now I'm dry. My juices ran out, I have a mental case of blue balls, here we go with the laughs.
Never mind how it's a real struggle. Every book, every chapter—every goddamn paragraph.
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More than a year, how long will it take? I don't know, I'm hoping every day I'll return and become me again - full of words and... something more.
But right now, as it is, I've packed away my keyboard, and I'm walking out that door.
