But they’re blank, now I’m filled with self inflicted rages, oh pages, oh pages. Make me feel like my hobbies are just phases of wasted potential lacking amazing, these pages.
Always writing with a mind that’s so faded; write one word, drop the pencil, leave the room. Fucked with creative stimulation now all I’m left with is self hatred, and a plate of food to wash it down with, these pages.
Paper makes me feel cynical to a self I’m still discovering; uncovering just how to fill said pages… with thoughts that drip drop on my forhead when it isn’t raining; on my soul, oh the constant pain and… maybe one day I’ll finally fill a page in.