lights blind as the city sleeps

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.

admissions of submission

and i'm once again back to spilling words onto a page.
i need something physical to remind me i'm real.
today has to be the first of the rest of my life.
dreams and hopes revealed.
to me.
to you.
to them eventually.

sometimes i sing the lyrics in my head out loud. they never make sense.
then i try and write them down, but they never sound the same on the page.
the paper twists them. the ink stains.
i'd start a band, but i'm not talented enough to accept that i could be talented enough.

the skeletons in my closet were formed by words, and now they're kicking and screaming trying to break down the barriers i built between me and the world.
but it's a comfort to know i'm safe in my own head.
being the procrastinating underacheiver that i can't help but embrace.

this face doesn't fit me anymore... it's got to change.

or does it?