uninspired works that i need to throw away

Writing

If I grow restless with time, yet time is forever patient with me am I wrong? Is it possible to dream, without making dreams my devotion? Could I think without ever second guessing on my desires?

I’ve turned deaf ears to the truth I’ve spoken a blind eye to the obvious.

Ignorance that led to my apathetic existence that I: in hindsight never wanted, but am content with.

I don’t even know why I write anymore.

I feel as if I’m still trapped in third grade and I’ve just finished ramming my head into a pole and knocking myself half dead and my youthful body is unconscious in the nurse’s office and all the things I’ve written are being thrown around in my brain in attempts to wake me up.

All of these words, that I’ve dished out. These verbal assaults on whatever blank surface I can find. They have become vague now. There is no substance in these messages, no lesson.

I know that I should be grateful for the sweet berries that the tree of life has offered onto me. As I bite into each berry as the years pass the juice taste bitter and the skin of the berries become tougher.

Maybe I am trapped in third grade, half dead in an unfamiliar bed.

Maybe it’s time for me to tell myself what is to come.

“Hey Derwin, there isn’t any soft way to put things for you. You lose Mommy; your absent father passes the next year. You live with Grandma for majority of your life big brother leaves when he’s old enough too. You grow into this hollow shell of a boy and you swell up with thoughts that you can’t work through. But don’t fret yet man. Things get better for a while. You graduate high school and you move onto college. You’ve been told you’re bright and intelligent for so long you have high hopes for college. After your shoddy first year at a community college of poor tastes you move on to get kicked out of said college. You get your heart broken twice and then some, grandma gets sick, and you lose interest in life. You take a yearlong drug binge to accompany some false spiritual soul searching. You don’t find any answers. Right now Derwin, well Derwin right now you’re twenty years old, you have huge trust issues and you’re insecure and you have a list of regrets that you’ve written you never chased your dreams. Derwin you haven’t lived. You leave behind friends you once held dear to chase who you think you are. Women become stepping stone momentarily, you get lost trying to figure out who you are now that you forget that people have feelings as well. You have heart and you can love, but you’ve grown cold and disconnected with everything else. You hardly sleep now; you no longer close your eyes. You gaze at the moon with feelings of wander.

You’ve been too busy dying to attempt living yet.

But don’t worry kid. Apparently it gets better.”

And truthfully I’m terrified that I’m not unconscious still in third grade and this is all just an elaborate dream. I was hoping to take pride in this shameful façade. This wishful what if story that will never hold true.

I’m not unconscious in third grade; I’m awake in my room. And I am absolutely terrified.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

The tender warmth of a love-sick woman, are you here now?

Do you hear me calling to you?

I’m delirious and trapped in a vulgar schema and I call to you.

Are you here?

Do you hear?

Under the shadows of the moon and hidden beneath trees that bare sun-kissed passion fruit, do you hear my veins howling for warmth? You’re not here. Hear my bitter blood boil in my veins

What will become of my heart if it is desolate?

Caress my skin so nothing feels like a façade: take me into you and let your skin whisper onto mine with.

Cover my brazen mannerisms with your affectionate regiments.

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