I'll delete this tomorrow when I have something to say (of self-deemed merit, if it so exists)

Every word that escapes your fingers is completely ersatz and makes my eyes want to bleed.
I would say that trying to read your "work" makes me want to kill myself, but that would just be redundant, now wouldn't it?
Some people say practice makes perfect, but you don't see people training runners without legs.
You can't construct something from nothing. That's not poetic, that's just fucking science.
A pretty pedestal made of air is nothing to be admired. Hell, it doesn't even exist.

Maybe to be a little less cryptic, I'll say this:

stop copying, i see right through it.
develop your own hobby.
or personality.
whatever.

...better?

you're paint-by-numbers.
i can still see the 1's and 3's and 8's no matter how much you try to drench them in acrylics. and it just doesn't hang as pretty. it's crooked, and no matter how expensive of a frame you get for your sunflowers à la van gogh, it still looks like a tacky artificial flower arrangement at a dingy mortuary. no life, just cheap "i love you daddy but not that much" death.

People who tell you to never give up aren't well-adjusted individuals. That flowery "believe in yourself" bookmark you keep (though you rarely use it) was just made by some middle-aged suit who wanted to make a buck or two, anyway. And I mean, he's good at it; it's gathering dust right now in your pseudo-intellectual novel that you can't comprehend. But unfortunately for you, no amount of deceiving diction can transcend reality.



So, here's something to keep your page, something I'm giving to you, something I want you to copy:

"Take off the glasses and put down the pen. Be you and give up."



(this brought to you by a PMS-ing, water-retaining, frizzy haired ((thanks torrential downpour for being my companion to and from class all day, didn't put a damper on my sunny spirits one bit!!!)) bitch named Savannah.)