thoughts...(2)

My word, my writings are scarcely pathetic descriptions of Ideas, paintings, photographs,that exist so perfictly in my head, and are failed to be conveyed.

and as it always is, I belive, my lack of extraordinariness , physically and mentally, gives me the motivation to be com a better artist, its simple really, theres nothing els for me to be.

you musnt think me shallow or ungreatfull, art is one of the best things to ever occure to me, however , I am mearly suggisting, that my lack of originality or spark, makes me a better artist, as unuseual as it sounds.

the smallest of word fromt he smallest of people,with there little demanding actions, and there crys for attintion, makes me want to git away, snap my fingers and dissapear.

I am running out of ideas, as if the ideas were mine to begin with, I ma sure i read them in some book, and herd them being told and mixued them in my brain and added a word or two to them, and called them a story of my oun.

self pity is the most hideous of acts.

I am a child.

I argue with children.

I play with children.

I think like children.

I am a child.

.........................................

I use books to hide my face.

I use books to escape my reality.

I wish I could just sleep right now, instead of having to go there where people blame and judge, I wish I could sleep.