I hate writers. More specifically I hate amazing, prolific, ethereal poets with a nose that is too large for their triangular face. 

I hate myself. Even more so I hate my ability to fall in love with large nosed poets that use my own acts of displaying affection to rebuff and then take their 'tortured souls' to paper.

I hate words. Because even though this triangular artist had the chance to talk, the thought of drinking black coffee mixed with whiskey to 'create art' seemed more appealing than holding my hand in the monkey exhibit because I hated seeing them chained up left with nothing to do but stare through glass.

This is on my doormat now:

                                    "Due to the influx of tortured souls trying to write out                                                        their feelings on trees with a piece of lead, everyone is now                                                required to just shut the fuck up."

The whole town of Distopia wakes up with the same three birds chirping a continuous soundtrack. They all get ready for the day within the time period of 5 o'clock to 7 o'clock in the morning, most putting on the same suits that the one store in town carries. There are a few that wear the orange jumpsuits. I hate suits and the color orange washes me out. In the back of my closet I have a deep red sweatshirt with two holes in the arms where I poke my thumbs through. 

Everyone in Distopia wears masks. We have a selection of six, happiness, happiness, happiness, happiness, happiness, and elation. All of the females look the same and all of the males looks the same. I make my choice and walk out of my sliding door looking for the one guy that I can rely on. It's almost too late, but just in time he comes trotting by my porch with a pair of deep red converses that he had to color in just yesterday for the seventeenth time this month. He wears the same mask that I do, the one wear we pretend that we aren't dying to escape. But where else can we go? Everywhere gives the same mask, everywhere has the same two people that find love through deep red clothing, everywhere has a sob story that they think is so different from the others. So instead of throwing away our masks we wear them all. 

After all neither of us really look good in orange.

Take the plot line from a novel.

Throw it around in your head till you can shape the events to your liking.

Now put in a black character, an Asian, and a LGBT.

This suits your silver screen.

Add a love interest that is either ugly as sin or ungodly beautiful

Is there a love triangle?

Why not

Make it real and it's a documentary that airs on National Geographic

Or a newsreel on CNN

But make it a rom-com and you get opening night with movie stars and photographers.

Flash Flash Flash Turn

Flash Flash Flash Turn

NOW SMILE

An author of a magazine.

I feel like I'm throwing up

"yeah my step dad actually turned out to be a heroin addict"

it's coming up my throat.

"well my mom bought him for 1500 dollars"

I'm trying so hard to run to a secluded sound proof room.

"the sad thing is that his meth lab was found too. Should have done a better job hiding it I guess."

then it's all gone, spilling out for everyone to see.

There is a purple girl that walks behind the library. This alone is not at all abnormal, except it is always between three o'clock and five o'clock in the morning. Maybe she is another insomniac and on a college campus I should not be surprised, but she doesn't have the fake enthusiasm of someone who cannot rest their mind. 

I have seen her for three months and the way she walks is something I cannot get out of my mind. I would say I dream about her but I do not dream. She never hurries like she has somewhere to be, she is walking slowly so she can set her feet. She is climbing Mount Everest, determined not to the let mountain that has claimed so many lives, take hers too. 

Maybe I shouldn't use so many metaphors when I am trying to figure out people. Plainly speaking I just could not understand what the fuck was wrong with her. So at exactly 3:25 I waited in the back door of the library by the coffee shop that was barely functioning. I was going to catch the climber.

I heard her before I saw her. When she finally stomped out of sight I slowly started walking behind her. Ducking in bushes and looking around buildings kept me out of the sight of my nightmare/dream until she disappeared right before the pond on campus. It was as if she had just flown away.

I heard splashes and ran. My climber had not reached the top yet.

What was she doing throwing away her shoes. 

The start was on the top left side.

Dashes evenly spaced read across the page in a perfect line of happiness and symmetry.

Then it began to curve and slope faster and faster down the page.

Pages full of the path that led to the treasure

As it got the end-

the vague smell of cedar enters the room before you do

You would probably cut down all the trees in the world to keep it

I would do it for you

everything i write means nothing. 

They're just words that are put together to make sentences

some action there

an adjective to describe your blown up eyes

maybe throw in a preposition to describe how you threw yourself into my life

only to rip yourself out

but all they are 

are words

You will still leave the room, leaving your scent behind you

Cedar

I drink the coffee to prepare myself for something. Feeling the buzz of the artificial adrenaline provides me with a few seconds of shaking solace. Tricking myself into thinking that my life is a storyline that no publisher could pass up. I mean I have no money to spend and nobody to talk to so all my novel is is my thoughts and ideas, but maybe my thoughts are a novel idea. But then the buzz is gone and I have to fix another pot of coffee. 

Well what do you know?

We are out of mugs.