i was going to write a film
with uncinematic miscommunication and dreams and love shapes that aren't triangular or reciprocal
youth / pathos / goddamn / weltschmertz / agony & ecstasy

but
i look at blank pages and blinking cursors and think:
who is god to this paper? my first person fears mockery (who doesn't fear mockery?) but some people must feel like enoughgods or entitledgods or shamelessgods and my brain has no egoism to write so many pages

hours of action and dialogue that starts with synapses and moves to muscle action somewhere in my fingertips and eventually becomes 'movie',
but self loathing...
inhibits the process like road construction in los angeles, our generation has created a swarm of entitledgods when no child was left behind
positive reinforcement, absence of violence -you're brilliant my friend don't let anyone tell you otherwise, you can be the president-
Let's all be the President!
wait fuck, statistically, well there is one president every four years and someone must suck, statistics say that some people suck
and i am not part of the entitledgods or egomaniagods and this "talent" hasn't been assessed by a professional assessor
i want a scale, willy wonka & the chocolate factory had bad eggs and was still full of dreams, you must kill the bad dreams&eggs&unpleasant children

and here i have stopped before i have even started
blinking cursor
|
|
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what do you say?

This little black line will drive me insane.
It blinks and it blinks.
It waits.
It mocks.
I hear it, its derisive little laughter.
“Where are your words? Where did they go?
I am waiting you know. Feed me already.
Give me something to do.”

There and gone, there and gone;
standing in the empty space after the first line.
“Is this all you have? Striving for brevity Mr. poet?”
Fuck you.
I’ll go finish this thing with pen and paper.
And I’ll go do it outside, where you can’t follow me.

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