The Poetic Ramblings Of Your Average Teenage Dirtbag.

Hi, I'm Jory and I, like every other teen, express every feeling via the literary form of poetry. So read, if you perhaps wish to glance at the inner clockwork of my mind. Or don't. Whatever. I have too much swag for you anyway.
Mwa x0x0x0x

Chapter 10

Monstrosity

(Sorry guys, I haven't posted in ages and this isn't really a poem, but I really couldn't be bothered to make a new story or anything and if you think about it, this is kind of poetic. So yeah, hope you enjoy).

I find it strange and slightly aggravating that in my times of joy and feelings of utter satisfaction, I am unable to write words which would ignite one's mind and soul. Instead, I become wrapped in my own delight and I am distracted by the thrill of knowing a happiness that had only just before been a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. I find that in times of complete bliss, I do not feel the need to scribe in intimate detail, for I am too busy enjoying the moment, drinking in its splendour. Whereas in bleak times, times of sorrow and self-loathing, I feel I must pour every thought I have through the tip of my pen on to paper or else my mind may implode due to the pressure of it all. It has been so long since I've written anything worthwhile, and while this makes my heart ache terribly, I have found that no matter how hard I try, I cannot make the words form within my skull. Ideas flit by leaving nothing behind. No echo of creativity. No imprint of imaginativeness. They come and go, leaving me empty handed and tearing my hair out in the hope that some hidden literary treasure may be buried at the roots. Sometimes I wonder (and it's a thought I care not to dwell upon for too long for the fear my heart may actually break) that perhaps my writing ability was only accessible when I was at my lowest. When I felt like I was no more than a hollow shell. It was as if in those moments of not knowing myself, my words became my definition. When I felt like I was made up of only skin and bone and fleshy organs, the words that could form in my mind and spill forth from my pen made me feel...relevant. Not special. Not important. Not needed. But relevant. And not to other people, but to myself. Because really, who should think you're relevant more than yourself? But now that I have other things in my life that make me feel relevant, it's like my writing is on the back burner and I don't know what to do because it's been the only sure definition of who I am all this time. I want to write about love and growing up and life and all the beauty within it, but whenever I try, the words escape me and nothing but thoughts of heartache and endless woe come to mind. I want that dreaded part of my life to be over. The past buried, never to see the light of day again. Never again to weave itself around my soul. Never again to leave it's marks on my tender skin. But yet...a part of me longs for the crippling pain, only to once again release the artist I know lives inside of me. But this artist seems only to come forth when they can tear away at the deteriorating interior of my mind and seep out of the cracks in my soul in a black sickly mess of cynical beauty. Sometimes it feels like I'm not the one writing, but instead some otherworldly being has taken control and is using me as a vessel for its awe inspiring thoughts. For its captivatingly hideous visions. For how can I, a mere child, write such words of utter ingenuity in all their chaotic complexity? Maybe I am no more than a flesh suit, prepared only for immortals to play dress up with. A walking, talking monstrosity...

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