I stay up late. Write, read, delete-erase-backspace, write again.
And I end up with an ugly dish that tastes like death. I am not the next Iron chef.
Hell, maybe I'm not even a writer.
I blame my parents. They could have bought me a dog.
Maybe if my 4th grade teacher wasn't always distracted.
Or maybe it's Gods fault, because there's no father to provide me inspiration.
Maybe Stephen Chbosky is just lucky.
Maybe his words just mean more.
Maybe I let them mean more.
Maybe I hate his poem because it makes me so jealous. Maybe it makes me jealous because he tells a perfect story, but ruins the ending.
His words are flawed, and flawless. They inspire me and destroy me. I turn this hideous shade of green and can't help but to envy him.
www.freewebs.com/ohparasi/
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