i used to pick up my pen

they are emotive and melancholy
and it's the details that are left out
which make me interesting
cuz i hope im
more than the friends that hurt
more than the days that killed me
more than the people that saved me
more than an inference
more than the activities i love
more than all that i've chosen to forget
and more than all that I try to remember
conversations
ideas
people
anything that seemed like it would be valuable to know when im old and rotting.

maybe after I tear up the pages and backspace the letters which appear on this screen
I'll reflect on the productive aspects
the possible positive outcomes
and maybe I'll think and appreciate
that perhaps I really was learning the dynamics of punctuation, and the importance of dialogue. That i got the chance to experience the kind meaningless words that scribbled from the pens of teachers

but I sit in desks
killing my brain cells
building a bitter attitude towards this person I am, and the physical vessels around me
and im telling myself that I wouldn't want us to all be lifeless drones
and that there is a purpose to expressing the english language


but I hate writing
because I can't write
and this is anything but expression
and if it never finds an ending
I hope to stab a pen through my heart
and pray to a fucking god that I don't believe in
that I can do more than add to the slow devolution of language

But It will never happen.
I'll still be here
or there
or wherever the fuck I'll be
still penning down the excrement of thoughts
and hating every letter that forms into a word, sentence, paragraph, essay, or story.

listen real close
the 'publish' button whispers a quiet "fuck you."