I don’t think I hide things from people when they say how you doing and I say OK because I guess I am, certainly on the social outsides.

but am I? I think I am but I know damned well I’m not. I have shit going on that I don’t know how to fix or who can fix or or

I don’t want to join the real world any more. The grown up world. For want of sounding ego it feels beneath me. I’ve had close to 2 years living in my own head and space and I have come out wonderful.

All these new Art things I do, they take time but shit ton worth it for the recipient.

I don’t want this wonderful creative POET feeling to go away and get diluted by the real world.

I’ll have to and I will and then I guess I’ll go back to writing angry shouty poems again and have to fight for and seek out the longer, more personal poems.

I even almost have wizard hermit hair too so couldn’t I just get fed by the local villagers and live in my cave of creation…with gigs obvs.

I guess the thing of a diary is like going to see a shrink or something and it’s that, who do I tell that I want to murder my own arms right know?

I have a knife under the bed for emergencies, I have a lighter over there to heat the blade and then burn me like a fuck.

But I won’t do that and I’m not even close but I’m close in a I remember what it was like when I was there and did that.

I can’t I don’t think, do it any more and I don’t know if I miss it or wish or or or or orororororororo

it’s a fucking safety net to fuck and as much as I’m new to the not having it I’m not convinced I don’t need it.

I just want to cut burn hurt slice leg arm fire sharp anything any fucking stabbing myself pain.

I FUCKING want it.

a slight slice and bubble blood or flow of crimson or burn blisters like squishy derriables

I need these things I want theses things

So long after I’m dead when anyone reads it but fuck you you cunts for making me like myself and not be allowed to fuck with my own shit in order to i don’t know let’s press send have a a last smoke and watch scooby in bed