Blank pages
I stare at these plank pages and I’m so fucking stuck, I’m lost. I used to be able to write and it wasn’t like carrying a sack of bricks uphill in the snow on roller-skates. The words were there, now they’re not. I hate December so fucking much anymore. I hate my birthday. I hate, ah, fuck it. I’m so fuckin’ eloquent, I know.
4 comments