Washing the shit off. Finally.

I haven't touched my short stories in nearly a year.
I haven't attempted to write anything in almost a year.

I scribbled random lines and jotted down a few poems.

I had stopped writing.
Why?

I let a few people on this Earth shit on me and I was dumb enough to care about it.

I thought a writing class full of young aspiring writers such as myself would be beneficial.
It was of course but it also stung so bad that I stopped wanting to call myself a writer all together.

I wanted my writings to be meaningful. I wanted my writings to leave a lasting impact on a persons mind.

"no one talks like that"
"your words are too flowery"

"Ew, pedophile priest how clique. The boy wouldn't love him back"

"Don't write about transgendered people being psychos. They're already marginalized..."


Who was my audience? Clearly people who lived in a nice bubble world that I was not a part of in any way.

I'd forgotten who I was really writing for.

I was writing because I had to write.
I write because I have to or else I will slowly fade away into a shadow that only sighs all day.

I won't get better if I stop. I have to fight for my dreams or surely they will crumble before me
and I'll be bitter and insane like my mother.
I don't want to be her.
I don't want to talk about what was or might have been.

I wake up in the morning now and I write or read what other writers write. I learn.

I don't lay in bed wishing that I could some how sleep my life away and awake years
later in a world I could actually enjoy.

I go outside and I live now and seek out other artists who are seen as weird in society and don't give a fuck if others think so. I stopped letting leeches suck on me and bring me down because they're too afraid to be 'abnormal'.

I just want to be me. I don't want to die a stranger to myself.

No more shit.
I don't give a fuck anymore.

I am a writer because I write
and I write to survive.
It feels damn good to be alive again.
*blasts Metallica in the dead of night*