I’m no good a lot of times, because I’m human, cutting my own path. I often wonder how I can make my words more visible; how I can do better to widely inspire. I’m assaulted by generics daily, and I feel sorry for those who follow easy lines built upon clichés—I’m offended for every writer who bleeds each word they write. A real writer bleeds thick—so thick the words have a granular texture. So thick you gag on their truth, and question your own. A real writer inspires you to examine yourself, rather than telling you to smile and accept your lot.
I’m no good a lot of times, because I’m human, cutting my own path. That’s what makes me brilliant (?) I write confessionals in an effort to connect with others like me. There are countless others like me—deep. But I’m assaulted by generics daily—people who are popular because they post shit that’s pretty easily digestible. There are far more generics than there are genuines, it seems. And I’m not jealous of a pseudo-writer’s insta-success. I’m simply pissed-off because they’re so fucking simple, they have no blood to show for shit. Yeah, they have numbers, but those numbers are made up of dumbfucks who live for platitudes.
Platitudes = insincerity.
Just so you know.