cynically viewing the sweet tender kisses of strangers and whores wondering in disgust why my simple mind cannot simply fathom the idea of reciprocity and commitment. in turn, i run away and meld into the woodwork. i am angry. i am alone. rotten, dirty thoughts inside my head, "get real" they tell me if only they knew... but if they knew how real things are inside my brain, the would be afraid. they would smoke newports and listen to rappers rap about dreams and the painful realization that there really is no such thing as love, as happiness as heart insurance and drug free societies. and if i were like them, i would stop all this nonsense i would quit hoping for a better tomorrow and deal with today i would paint less, study more and settle for a beer at the end of the day. but theres a certain knawing and clawing inside my stomachs pit and the rampant creature is restless and disturbed. so i write...and i sing...and i sleep with the dream in my head of a big screen and a microphone attached to a pen, i dream of red carpets and skinny girls wishing i was like them. night has fallen once again, tears retreat into the viles of my eyes, take three pills to stabalize my mood) and remember how i used to how i used to....use.