armoniman13

...

They say love finds its own way home, Around the snakes, inside your heart, and underneath all the bones. And though the world may fold you in its pocket, you won't ever bend. You're not the type, my only love, my only real friend. And what about the girl who ran? She ran so far away, she could never find her way back home again. She tripped and fell and broke her heart. And now the only thing she does well is fall apart. So c'mon. C'mon baby, c'mon. C'mon baby, c'mon. C'mon baby, c'mon. Yeah. And what about this starry sky? I know I've used that tired analogy a thousand times. But it still has the same strange effect on me. I

I keep writing and writing but nothing truly fruitful comes of it. I just scribble away in my journals. Ideas, thoughts, muses and other random bits of nonsense. Even now I write this knowing only one person will read it and I don't know why I'm even bothering with it. I have no expectations about this entry yet I write it. I have no drive to write. I just use it now to remove myself from the world or to write what I think about it. There is no purpose with the exception to vent my frustration, but I'm not even sure it's working toward that end. I'm free falling into a void, and the void is my own life. Damn. That sounds way to Emo.