is it strange how everything inspires me, and at the same time, i'm never inspired.
or inspirational.
i want to be needed. to been seen by someone other than my reflection.
i avoid the mirror in the fear that i won't recognise myself.
i can't stop the typewriter in my head clicking with every word i've never said.
then i scratch them into napkins and skin, incase they fade.
i don't care about crowds screaming a name i don't recognise as my own, i just want people to realise i'm alive.
i want to make a difference to someone's mind.
i get behind the wheel and i can't shake the feeling that people in car crashes have burnt to ashes, leather fusing to fingertips.
then i realise none of this makes sense.
so i'll slur "i love you"s to myself, because i don't have anyone else.
i'm obsessed with love, yet phobic of obsession.
so am i terrified of emotion?
i joke with my head that i've fallen behind with life.
i just need to find the passion, the spark between my hips and relationships.
i want to run through the tide and let it soak up my ambition.
and then get the hell out of this town.
