(no subject)
all i ever wanted to be was something i'm not. i want to be your february sunsets and i want to be the words on pages that meant something more than their worth. but now the words are trapped in larynxes and fingertips and there arent enough dictionaries to create a sentence worth a second glance. i am unoriginal and paranoid that everything anyone has ever told me has been a lie. i need southern air and a little common courtesy and the will to accept that i write what i know and that's not very much, not at all. i'm more pete wentz than jesse lacey and it's a full-time job comparing myself to everyone else and always falling short. nothing short of a breakdown, nothing. it's ennui to a degree i'm not sure anyone has ever felt. this is not a rut; this is a broken record. this is the moral written continuously on 96 pages of an outdated novel. 'if at first you don't succeed -' then what? so much for you saving me from myself - but i will never hold your words against you.