9:26 pm - Saturday, Jun. 07, 2003
Song:
It�s a begging sort of thing, but I need time to write. I want the moments to pour into words and mix. Martini the soul in a mass of paper, and typed words.
I want to thank English class in a sense. Only in the opening to write. The recommendation letters to invitations. The time to journal, though not mandated.
I want this to sound like me, but I feel like I�m faking it, making it up. The first time all year.
I turned everything into my own. I turned everything against the assignment, and followed the parameters to well to fail.
I Beau Sia�d your sidewalks, and loved a poem too much because it talked about penis, and adapt too well the writing styles I admire. I faked words, and sexed up my papers, then toned down my words and my stories and cursed myself some for what I�d done.
I like to write too much.
And I don�t think I�m talented at it in the least. I feel you praise me out of a taught need to make a student feel good because they try. I feel others praise out of politeness. It is not socially acceptable to tell someone they suck.
Screw the reading, the praise, the days I bitched loudly and clearly with my desk two feet away. All I wanted was to write, and that�s an open door now. And in the end, I tend to want to fly.
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