Scribbles on notes found in my room

I've Always aspired to do many things. Seems all I was ever good at was aspiring.

I never know what to call my writings. Is it Poetry? Are they moments of prose? essays maybe? who knows, who cares really. Call them all what you want. In the end, I'll call it therapy, and I will be thankful for that.

"She's just eccentric." that's just a nice way of saying she's a crazy bitch.

I'm slowly losing my mind, which I'm ok with. I'm just not sure how much more mind I have left to lose.

I wonder if the man in the moon gets hungry and lonely. Somedays I think me and the man in the moon w0uld get along just fine.

You aren't as cold and alone as you might think boyo. You've loved once, and that means your still alive. Things aren't as bad as you might think, cause being alive and loving is pretty sweet.

This bed is much too big. I share it with my oversized throw pillow and nightmares. one side always cold like the planet pluto, too far from the warmth of everything to be saved. I might be the sun in this bedroom solar system, but i wish i had a third planet to share it with.

I think this place is haunted. I d like to meet a ghost. I bet he or she would have a hell of story to tell. Maybe i could tell them it'll all be ok, things here are alright. Can i save someones life, even after their dead?

I could write six pages on billy the butcher. i could write 30 pages on darth vader. I can't write one about me.


Eveidently, I have a whole lot to say. I have pages and pages of these notes left about in my notebook. maybe someday i'll sort through them all. this one i found has been my favorite:

The names have been changed to protect identity. But you all know who you are.