I just scrapped a poem about worms because I can't squirm through shit like they can.

This season should be home to big events, you should not wait through warm weather. Sifting through all the bits of skin exposed because its bored, all the fans pumping words of encouragement to the millions of nerve endings bent on taking their time and days unsure of where they are in the world or if it's not even a day at all but a 24 hour stall in the execution... is pointless. I'm sure i'll save these hours for another time. I'm sure I'll learn to wait on rain again.

But where will this time be spent in the future? I don't remember what goals i had set for free time but they were all put on hold for the cause of one. One whom I can look at every time I pass and still look at when I get home and stare at blank pages. Every page is blank now, not just the unwritten ones...


and im sure that's why I'm making this journal. Attempting to get used to the feeling of putting words down. Even if they don't mean anything, or sound muddy on the tongue or a desperate pass at sympathy i havent wanted in years it's alright. As long as i'm not stating what's gotten me so little in girl talk over the phone then maybe ill be able to save it for a much more important cause. Or who knows maybe i'll even write a poem,

that'd be a fine idea.