half finished frustration, fragment thoughts reduced to only bits and pieces. evidence of consternation; failing to state anything save for my newfound impotence, rendering them useless. writer's block i believe it's called.
this filth that i'm spewing simply isn't marketable. sexual draino, but you are sold out. what a rudimentary purpose you serve.
inspiration is everywhere. i scrabble to receive it, but all that emerges are these half thoughts.
absent, i am left with solely the memories of who you used to be, replaced by this cold harsh reality. but please perservere, they say no one emerges from the forest the same person.
that's what you wanted all along, isn't it?