new-typo

my blog, after a new episode: shitty typos everywhere, 10 different posts by 23 different people all saying the exact same thing, shitty half-cocked theories that will hopefully never come into fruition, screaming incessantly about a character that is an irredeemable piece of shit, screaming about three other characters that are innocent and need help, gifsets of the episode that has been out for .3 seconds,

“The debate over whether people can change is an interesting one for me to observe because it seems like all I ever do is change. All I ever do is learn from my mistakes so I don’t make the same ones again. Then I make new ones. I know people can change because it happens to me little by little every day. Every day I wake up as someone slightly new. Isn’t it wild and intriguing and beautiful to think that every day we are new?”

it is lonely, being a writer
you sit alone with your words
and a dictionary that rustles like freedom
but you’re all alone and so you repeat it
[i’m a writer
i’m a poet]
like a mantra that no one wants to hear

the cliff of loneliness is telling someone
here it is, my craft, my art, my words
they glance at a blurrying page, unphased
“another one? aren’t you tired of it?”

you retreat back to the room
with the mute dictionary and your smaller self
next time someone asks what you do
you won’t say what you are

you’ll make it pretty
after all, you know the way of words
you’ll say “i like to write, a little, here and there
not that i think i’m a writer”
and laugh it off while you cough out your heart

it is lonely, being consumed, eaten, hollowed
bone after bone by ravenous words
your skeleton made of ink
in a world of erasers.

Linn D.