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i havent been able to write in forever. i set myself up, on your marks get set go, but I never hear the gunshot. I'm too busy planning what I'll one day write, fighting with myself when i cant get my legs moving properly. I stagger stupidly down the track, attacked by all my feeling of inadequacy. I haven't been able to find that perfect subject. I'm saving my poetic virginity for that ellusive mr right, but in reality im getting fucked in the ass by my pickyness. every subject is only as good as I'll make it, and i hate it. I have no inspiration because I'm holding my breath, waiting for the day something will take it away. I walk with tunnel vision, missing the details, the tidbits of life that happen constantly. I'm ferociously searching in all the wrong places, pursuing the wrong chases. I am running so fast, everything is a blur. I've forgotten how to sit still, patience has evaporated and been replaced with anxiety. I'm fighting a constant battle with my past and future self. My past endeavours hang around my neck like heavy gold medals, and they weigh me down. root me to the spot and I am unable to shed them and walk forward. I am in the shadow of my best, towering over me, taunting me that I wont write anything any better. And I'm tempted to believe their whispers. then i wont constantly force myself to squeeze out written diarrhea. And if I do manage to shit out a gem, then i'll be a welcome surprise and not a hemorrhaging affair.
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I just used an extended poop metaphor. That's a first.

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