I Hate My Writing
Words of a Tortured Artist Vol. 1
As exciting and cool as it may seem I can't trade in words to redeem the things that make me happy nor could I sell the intellectual phantom of emotions that lay resurrected with death upon request.
It leads to me explaining and contemplating and questioning and I hate the subconscious nonsense that make inquiries from mysteries even I don't understand.
It leads to the reconstructed destruction of relationships or that lack of. Suffering from self annihilating pesamestism controlled by illogical unreasonable ideology.
It leads to a man suffocating his mediation of emotional connection to choose between truth & dare or lies & despair.
When a man doesn't care for the hair of his chinny chin chin because he doubts the meaning of her smile, laugh and grin.
He knows it's a sin to judge, a hypocrite he has become for blaming her for the same actions he has committed himself. He needs to change it or else. But when thoughts scramble like the black bag of scrabble he rants and babbles about past excuses and mental travels. He misses his shot, the buzzer beater has beaten him, a fake translator of subliminal emotion polyglots he rather leave a women to travel fast, hot and ready thots. Little Caesar stabbed in the back by his own reflections, diplomatically distributed through systemic self termination.
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