VI.

❃

MY THOUGHTS ARE NOTHING BUT PROSAIC LANGUAGE GARNISHED BY RIVETING WORDS

There is no way to be truly original, for we are all damned at the commence of life. I am a used battery, struggling to soak up every ounce of creativity I have left. My ideas are capricious, a never ending flow of instability. They tell me my youth is my advantage, but i see no difference. Our mundane natures retrain us from unveiling the extravagant notions of the unknown.

I'd like to be a better person, but good people live normal lives which is toxic to writing. How can one truly speak from the mind and heart if they have no experience. My virgin mind has been raped by the evils of society giving me a fountain of inspiration...

And I don't know whether to feel thankful, or violated