Surrender

Let me tell you a secret. I've burned ten drafts of this piece. I've put it in a pipe and smoked it dry. The smell lingers like burning rubber on top of road kill. I can't write. Not to save my life. They say write every day. I do and my computer begs me to leave the delete key be. The backspace button gets punched more than my ego. I surrender to the little voice that says, it's not good. Get drunk. Do drugs. Do anything more productive than this. It's masochistic, it hurts but I don't stop. I look in the mirror and see nothing but a vanilla flavored puddle, an identity crisis that surely everyone else can see. I think of cars on the streets of San Francisco, being broken into with smashed windows. The metaphor for lost souls. Have you ever tried being yourself in a crowded room? If you've ever looked at your hands and wondered what they're attached to, this one's for you.