i wrote what i knew

until i knew nothing for sure

anymore

i wrote til my hand bled

but i realised it was the ink

from my left hand's scrawl.

i wrote what happened 'til

noting happened so much.

I write 'til i can't hold a pen

and then think a thousand

times more

about the things

i wish i wrote

i am not sure whether i'd rather

i wrote better

or have lived better.

i smudged what i wrote last night

when i read over it tonight

who's that crazy kid i adore?

i more than forget his imperfections

the very person you adore is more imperfect than yourself

the reason you adore them is realness

the reason you despise you own writing is its

inability to convey the realness of your everyday.

everyday is mundane and you wish you were living

on the front porch with a flame

to your mouth and a dialogue

of rehashed stories of people other than you

doing things