I don’t have any real feelings in me right now. I can only really write ‘bout my self if I’m overwhelmed with some feeling. But when I’m empty like this I can’t write. My mind is blank. But if I was to write I would write about how I’m angry
Angry at Mom
Angry at Dad
At Sarah
At my teachers
At my friends
At the prospects of my life
Or maybe I’d write a story, something environmental. Hoping to inspire people into saving the planet. I’d probably scribble the whole thing out, though. Cause it wouldn’t inspire anyone. I’d think I was a bad writer, then I’d think no, I’m a great writer especially cause I think I’m bad. Then I would think my last thought contradicted it’s self, and I’d sit and stare at something, The Rolling Stone. And I’d be angry they legitimized the Jonas Brothers, and how they are becoming another pop-culture loving rag. And I would miss the old format, with the giant pages. I’d wish I had been born in the 40’s, and was 18 in 1969. Actually that’s what I’m thinking now, as I stare at my Doors poster. I’d try to write something, and would stop in 5 minutes. That’s probably what I would if I was writing something.
Because this isn’t anything but my mind