Fuck this feeling.
I wanna write poems on cheap paper with a bad pen and scribbled half cursive and mispelled words.
Nothing is real without my definition of Reality and reality is not including me without some higher being currently.
Coating emotions with food and fears with sleep.
Hours wasted on thoughts running alone.
Thoughts stifled by absorbing media as was intended by the providers but perhaps not the makers.
This version of myself self prescribed as okay or bad or good or something. Typically a thing to change. Do I make sense? Can one understand me? Can I make a living on art and creativity or is art and creativity in spite of my living? Caused by my living?
If I was freely roaming could I freely create? Would I hate would I dissipate?
To reply. To do. To think. To create. To exist.
Complicated. Like a facebook definition of a relationship of a high school student who thinks they are practically engaged to the dude they once locked eyes with in a lecture.
“It’s complicated”
No set reality. No set definition.
Which is itself the definition.
The reality.
A paradox we only dream up to make sense of things with.
All is nothing. Nothing is all.

I hope this poem makes you feel things.
I just wrote it because I needed to stop.