I hate myself but I love what I do.
The turn of a phrase or a new idea.

I’m a mother not a father.
I give birth to many things, and tell them how great they are.
I’m never hard on them— they never get anywhere or go outside into the world.
This is making me grow ambivalent.
I want my creations out in the world surviving alone without my name or hand.

I want to be remembered as trivia.

I don’t want to dent the universe but polish it shiny and smooth.

My name doesn’t need to be inside the pages of school reports.
It would be nice to have my ideas there though.
The children have a lot to learn, my mistakes.

The world’s ready.
It always has been.
Mainstream maybe not.
To keep my image around my friends I should say I’m proud of that fact.
Subcultures and stature making secrets aren’t really for me though.

I don’t want to be treated like a God by elitist self-proclaimed intellectuals, yes I do.

I want to be God, mother, father, and poster child of a movement.

I should shut up.

I can’t start or star in a revolution.
I’m not an artist but a dreamer.

I don’t want to work for any of this.

I’m horrible my art suffers for me.
I should suffer, and be sacrificed for my art.
I could think a thousand things in my mind but nothing can change the world in there.

The things that flood my ears pour through my lips and fingertips.
No one sees my fountain of work.

I’m getting too old to die young.

My talents makes me feel guilty.
I see writers struggle, trying to funnel thoughts through a pen touched to their lips held steady by nervous teeth.
I’m not a better writer or worse or equal but everything flows free.

I’m not proud with the high-grade of bullshit I serve people daily.
Yes I am.

I want to throw my fingers deep in every pile.
I know it’ll take away from everything, I do.

Art isn’t practice.
It’s prodigy.
It’s a chance.

For every hundred things I write, I like little and love even less.
I’m too worried about the finish piece to get anything real done.
Maybe I’m just afraid of failure, success, or being known.
I hate biographies wrote by fans.
I don’t want anyone to dedicate their life to mine.
Yes, I do.

I still learn new words.
I don’t use many of them.
What’s the good with giving out corkscrews when most people only drink beer?
I’m too consumed by what people want.

Maybe I should go into marketing.
Admit to my lack of any real commitment.

I want to be discovered.
I’m worse than those black root blondes walking the streets and malls like catwalks.
Those girls make me sad.
I’ve seen a few of them naked.
Their real beauty hides in their lost hands stance showing their uncertainty.
I’ve only touched one of them though.
Far less than any man I know, but they’re all proud.
I’m ashamed, broken, and unimpressed.

I ramble a lot.
My genius tangents are redundant and self-centered.