When I access my mind like this it turns somewhat into a blank.
It becomes a sort of codex that recites itself on it’s behalf, and willingly hust like that.
It’s not as if I had some sort of filter on top of it, it allows me just to write.
Willingly, and endlessly.
These stories… these feelings
They feel familiar.
And they feel painful,
Especially to someone with a story like mine.
I still remember those moments, and I can relate to those insecurities.
He’s trying his hardest.
It’s not enough, not to someone like her.
Then it just becomes reason to being mean.
I feel you man.
Keep on, just as I am.