The frustration exudes from me like some angsty preteen bent on sneaking out for the night. It builds and threatens me to go under. Slowly I have to pull myself together for I really can't hold on like this much longer. No release comes handily to mind so I improvise and write. A self-made catharsis that has been used for centuries, thousands of years.
"Do you write? You seem like you would write."
I don't write, I suppose I do. It consists of a vomiting on the page of my circumstance. Each thought and word I think is mine stems from another; person, time, lover, partner in crime, organist, or artist. My stressors are frustration, boredom, passion, patterns. Long past has the time come when events became plagerized.
A cheating, sceaming, addicted wretch is time. She slips back into old habits, begs for attention and longs for when she was young and new once again.The only deilema is that she was never young. Never vibrant and unused, so she slips quietly into madness, nestled in chaos' lap.
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