I have been looking through my old writing recently, and after leafing through every pointless stanza I've realised something; I do not have one single ounce of desire to be creative unless I am uncontrollably unhappy.
"so you're sat inside this empty house
and it's becoming almost as empty as you
who would've thought it would come to this
a reality tv show stuck on repeat.
we're just two broken records,
skipping over the best parts
all systems are not go
and you're shutting yourself down
blank faces, blank words and blank clothes
all becoming a permenant fixture
since when had your life become nothing but a machine?
who would've thought
that you're stuck on repeat
stuck on repeat
First of all, this problem is one I'm most definately going to fix.
Second of all, I never want to be unhappy again if all that comes of it are pitiful peices of writing such as the one above. That is all.