(no subject)
if you don't want to read about my emotional problems, then fuck off and skip this entry. i know i don't update a lot but i dont' really have anyone to bitch to about this stuff so here's my space.
i can't believe i'm still fucking hung up over nathan. i've tried so hard to get over him and i'm so angry with myself that i can't. there are so many wonderful people out there who actually give a shit about me enough to involve themselves in my emotional well being and i can't make myself respond to these people because i'm STILL FUCKED IN THE HEAD.
i'm smart enough to realize that i'm crazy but i don't know what to do about it. or, like always, i'll start to second guess myself and think that all these thoughts and issues and bullshit problems running around in my head are my own fucking problems and i need to deal with them.
what's the point of poetry, of writing anything anymore? it's all been said before, it's all been done. what is the fucking point. how do teachers read bullshit papers day after day when it's the same thing, over and over again? how can we possibly strive to be unique through these mediums? i don't understand. art is the only thing that's left. poetry is dead. prose is dead. the great authors have already all lived and died.
yes i'm being bitter. i was on an emotional high today and now i'm at an emotional low. i figure there's probably a good chance someone reading this will enjoy it, but at this point i'm convinced that everyone out there reading it will enjoy it. so it does'nt fucking matter. besides that, i'm crazy. i'm broken and i can't fix myself.
...
i can't believe i'm still fucking hung up over nathan. i've tried so hard to get over him and i'm so angry with myself that i can't. there are so many wonderful people out there who actually give a shit about me enough to involve themselves in my emotional well being and i can't make myself respond to these people because i'm STILL FUCKED IN THE HEAD.
i'm smart enough to realize that i'm crazy but i don't know what to do about it. or, like always, i'll start to second guess myself and think that all these thoughts and issues and bullshit problems running around in my head are my own fucking problems and i need to deal with them.
what's the point of poetry, of writing anything anymore? it's all been said before, it's all been done. what is the fucking point. how do teachers read bullshit papers day after day when it's the same thing, over and over again? how can we possibly strive to be unique through these mediums? i don't understand. art is the only thing that's left. poetry is dead. prose is dead. the great authors have already all lived and died.
yes i'm being bitter. i was on an emotional high today and now i'm at an emotional low. i figure there's probably a good chance someone reading this will enjoy it, but at this point i'm convinced that everyone out there reading it will enjoy it. so it does'nt fucking matter. besides that, i'm crazy. i'm broken and i can't fix myself.
...