for some reason i felt the need to go read a couple old short pieces i had written early in the spring, march sometime i guess.


i miss writing, i miss my writing. i miss being inspired, i miss being forced.

i dont want to just sit in spokane all day staring at my journal waiting to be used and me talking myself out of it before my pen has even hit the page.


i have so many great lines that just come to me out of nowhere, and i compose whole letters and poems in my head while trying to fall asleep, but i never write any of them down because what if i try and i fail? what if im not as good as i think? what if this whole thing is a waste and just when i think ive found my one true talent, im wrong.


im tired of being let down. so many things and so many people disappoint me, but i cant let fleeting moments and irrelevant people keep me from enjoying the, for the most part, pure bliss that is my life.



im simultaneously one step ahead and two feet behind you,
i cant ever quite catch up.
and for now i dont think its worth trying,
i dont think youll ever really know me.