No matter where i am, i find my way back to you.
Urge to purge...without speaking. How long can i manage? It's like a cancer of the soul, eating away slowly any chance of happiness- real or imagined.
Men at work are making light of my work...done after many sleepless nights. All my efforts. Just because it does not suit their ideological journalistic beliefs or may be just because they can.
One of my teachers had told me that never be married to your work...i think i may have made that mistake.
Their words sting...my ears are burning and my cheeks feel like they are on fire...
i am so confused. These highly learned men, whose craft i would have respected had this not have gone down the way it did. My work does not define me...i own nothing...my words are paid for, so why do i feel like this?
i did not confront them. They are still talking over and around me like i don't exist. Comparing my words to porn. i did the only thing i could to not hand them the victory and cry...i wrote some more. Is it porn?
If my bursting heart is a phallus then yes, writing these words did massage it and i did climax, a tear-less, numb state of nothingness.
Hollow men, hollow lives
Big egos, conversations trite
Waiting to extinguish any spark of light
i feel better. Let me write some more.
Not the right shade of brown,
Not the right kind of eloquence
Not on the right side of right
The only thing right i can do is to just be
Urge to purge...without speaking. How long can i manage? It's like a cancer of the soul, eating away slowly any chance of happiness- real or imagined.
Men at work are making light of my work...done after many sleepless nights. All my efforts. Just because it does not suit their ideological journalistic beliefs or may be just because they can.
One of my teachers had told me that never be married to your work...i think i may have made that mistake.
Their words sting...my ears are burning and my cheeks feel like they are on fire...
i am so confused. These highly learned men, whose craft i would have respected had this not have gone down the way it did. My work does not define me...i own nothing...my words are paid for, so why do i feel like this?
i did not confront them. They are still talking over and around me like i don't exist. Comparing my words to porn. i did the only thing i could to not hand them the victory and cry...i wrote some more. Is it porn?
If my bursting heart is a phallus then yes, writing these words did massage it and i did climax, a tear-less, numb state of nothingness.
Hollow men, hollow lives
Big egos, conversations trite
Waiting to extinguish any spark of light
i feel better. Let me write some more.
Not the right shade of brown,
Not the right kind of eloquence
Not on the right side of right
The only thing right i can do is to just be
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