Dead and more dead.

Listening to crap hip-hop songs. Another half day gone. Nothing written. Bring me an axe, I would like to have my head chopped away. How loathsome can one man be? When I sit down and think about it, I begin to find some answer in myself. I want to shoot myself at the very back of my throat. How about you bring me a gun and I teach you how to load it? How stubborn can one man be? How utterly stupid! Winter is gone. Absolutely gone. You cannot find it anywhere around here. You can try. It will bring you only disappointment. Winter is gone and it has flown with dragon wings out of my world. Drank some sweet water some time back. The doctor said it would solve the problem of dehydration. I want to sit on his neck and bite into his windpipe until he begins to speak truth to me. But really, who am I expecting truth from? And what truth? HAAAHHHH. We all are gnawing at the same piece of stale bread, drinking the same poison. I wonder if I will ever start writing. The chances are slim. I would love to die in sleep. Alas, sleep only raises my blood pressure and does nothing worse. What a loser. What a shameless loser. Nobody is going to read you. You are going to rot under the pile of your own unread books. You think you are some bigshot? You think you are so cool? You are nobody. Your writing is bullshit. Your books are pathetic. PATHETIC! How come you are still standing here. How come you are still writing. Have you got any sense in your stupid head. Who are you writing for. There’s nobody. You can scream all you want. You can have your eyeballs exploded with bombs. Nobody is coming for you, for your words, your sentences, your books. You will go down. But before that, let’s drink lemonade. It’s just too hot.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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