Outer Monologue 

“So, you consider yourself to be a.. what?

A writer?

A self-destructive, head-above-the-clouds, angsty, messy artist 

With no grip on reality or any sense of what the real world will show you? 

Show you, show you disappointment, struggle and leave you considering a new career,

You do have a backup plan, right?

When you’re dreams to become the next Great American novelist inevitably fails?

You do have an idea of that, right?”

Inner Monologue 

My words have show me

That there’s a place to dream

A hope to strive for

And a world in which

My voice can be heard

My words,

They help me sleep and dream of new worlds. 

So,

why do I write?

I write to print the messages of my mind onto the canvas of the world that I live in. 

I write to live

Through the universes of my own mind. 

To escape the tethers of the one I reside in.

I write to live.