Then we did believe in magic and we did die.

My attempts at writing result in failure. It all turns into something childish and ignorant. There is no maturity, no insight Just the shallow thoughts of an uninspired girl who tries to force words out of her cheap ballpoint pen. What insightful thoughts are written down are cliche and overused, an imitation Hallmark card. it's pathetic. I flounder in my words and drown in shitty descriptions. The beauty I try to create strangles me and cuts the blood flow to my hand causing me to drop my pen in pain. Punishment for writing down such shit. I re-read what I wrote and i hate myself for writing it. It's forced, it's painful, it's awful. I want to rip it apart and burn it. I want to cut off my hands so I can never write again. I want, I want, I want. FUCK! I cannot write. Maybe I can learn, maybe someone can help me put my thoughts and feelings to paper, maybe. Until then I'll continue to hate myself and everything I write, but I'll keep writing. I'll keep doing the one thing that is slowly destroying me and I'll embrace the destruction.