We think we're special,
grasping for ideas as our pens hit the page, leaking a scrawled line in black ink,
searching for adventure and tragedy at the backs of our brains, rifling through files of our perfect and inexperienced lives
We fake conditions for the spotlight, yearning for the specialty and awareness
Your head starts to hurt as the stars fall around you, in beautiful cosmic trails of despair and confusion and disorientation,
and the galaxies spill from your mouth as lies and regrets and things you thought you knew well -
so many things wrong with your immaculate existence
Your hand twitches and your pen comes to a halt.
Suddenly you envy the poor
the tragic
the infected
the dead
because they have better stories to tell
and you wish for some misfortune because it's more romantic
because tragic is romantic, and you would pull it into bed with you if you could
Give yourself a rose, then, if you're going to be this way
cry yourself a river and drown in it, too
in the name of inspiration
in tragic backstories
in revenue and hope and eloquence
we all want to be the different one
yet our miserable pleasures are all the same.