I am scribbles and sleep deprivation. I’ve got half-finished works, so I lie awake at night and I give up on thinking it will ever be completed. It lies lonesome in one of my many notebooks—none of which I’ve ever filled—and I dismiss it until summer, where I pledge to finally make time for it.

I am summer. I’ve got promises to break and procrastination to put off, and that notebook is still unfinished. Ever split between philosophies, I call it half empty, cynically expect it to remain this way, yet anticipate a grand ending to that months-old masterpiece.

I am delays and distractions, staring at a blank screen or a blank piece of paper, or even more often, a blank nothing. I’ve got inspiration, mail-order, but I think I paid too much, and I’m getting the sinking feeling it was an internet scam anyway. But I’ll leave it alone, I’ll make up excuses for the mailman, and avoid doing anything myself.

I am my own home key: I’m waiting to return, but there’s nothing I can do but get myself there, on my own. I am passionate paradox trapped in passivity.

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The yearbook advisor wanted to showcase the Creative Writing Club, so I put this up. It's apparently going to take up two pages, because he did some nifty typography thing with it. I still don't know how to feel about that.