And woe is the mind that lives within my head for all the time it cries for some sort of lost justice. It cries just to be heard, because it has forgotten what it started crying about in the first place. It’s been slow and dreary and for this, I can’t stand. But all I may fuss won’t change how burdened it likes to be. For once long ago, someone or something convinced this mind that all the good you crave will someday be yours, but what they don’t tell you is when. So the young dope on hope just ponders anxiously for the sign that will let him know if this is that and if that is going to be all right.
I’m too tired to think. I’m too tired to write. I’m too tired to be much of anything at all. But do I ask for strength, or do I just kind of suck it and keep on keepin’ on as folk singers say. The good ones at least.
Maybe I could be a folk singer. I couldn’t be right now, I’ve been struggling with words too much lately. But maybe someday I can write a nice tune that’s nice to listen to and maybe might mean something to somebody someday. A song for the heart, to make it warm or at least make it feel anything at all because isn’t that wonderful. You know what I mean, being able to feel anything at all. Just to be alive is such a daily little thrill. It’s nice to feel bad over something because it means that I still have a soul attached to my name. Sometimes I doubt that. I don’t really know why it is because it wasn’t but as it stands, it’s questionable.
Baby steps to a brighter future as a starving artist.
Baby steps to being a paperback writer.
Baby steps to finally being able to say I’ve done what I was put on this planet to do.
It just sounds nice. Doesn’t it? Please say it does. But don’t lie to me. Then maybe I shouldn’t have told you what I wanted to hear. Damn it. Sorry, I can do that. If fucking up is a sport, I’m going to the Olympics.