Oh, how I wish I were better.

I lay down at night, and I dream. Oh, how I dream. I try to create but I fail miserably. Something half good must come from these fingers at some time or another. It kills me... I used to be quite the artist. I painted and drew for hours upon hours, never looking back. Now the most I do is draw patterns in the cement with my cigarette ashes. I keep a book at my side, and often times it is forgotten for days and weeks. I try so hard to keep it with me, but sometimes my head just lulls to the side and doesn't want to think right. He was the one who inspired me to create, but I don't quite want to remember him anymore. I've moved on to bigger, better things. If you don't want me, then I don't want you.

I try to be happy, I try to smile.

But these sleepless nights are getting to me. They make my body frail and tired, and suddenly I feel like death is approaching. Why can't I just get along during the day like everybody else?

And now, I don't know what I want. I don't know what I want from anybody.

From you, from him, from her. From myself.

What more can I ask? I simply need to keep existing from day to day.

I feel like moving far and starting again.

I've fucked up royally thus far.

These feelings inspire, and these feelings kill.