You're Supposed To Write This

The inner jerk in me keeps bribing myself with peach flavored lollipops, luring me in and convincing me that I can keep up with these overzealous, wide sweeping reoccurring promises of mine. BWAHAHA. So not happening. Warning: This post is littered and laced with all types of grammatical errors. I’m learning to UN-filter myself. It’s gotta start somewhere.  1. Be more outgoing.  F*ck it. I’m shy. There it is. I keep lying to myself year after year after year, and enabling you all to lie to me too, about me one day hinge-kicking out of my shell and becoming this loud, exuberant ball of energy. Even on my most inebriated of days, this isn't the case, and we all know how far liquid courage can go. I need to get real so that I can get some real results from some practical solutions. Which pretty much means hang around with more outgoing people and live vicariously through them. I’m sure it works just as well at baiting adventure. 2. Date .  Lol. Big LOL. Due to bulle

I don’t’ know what to do with myself when I am stressed, idle and unable to put into words how I feel. This article I read on ThoughtCatalog (I’ll dive into that a little later) said you have to get out all the bad stuff so you can get to the good. So… this is my rambling, cliché, melodramatic poem: I’ve never felt so stuck as a writer Nothing to say really Forcing a concept until I see it more clearly Drawing a blank more often than not Glimpses of ideas one moment. The next… damn. I forgot. And what is this ‘writer’ title anyway This name we so swiftly dub ourselves Without the corresponding resume Forcing it Not saying sh*t Even now as I clutch the pen It’s apparent that I’m struggling My prose flows differently than my thoughts go That’s a problem How am I both the blogger dying for their first print And the editor sent to stop them? My creativity’s getting choreographed I can much less even describe a laugh That joy I had when the sun tea