these words won't stop forming; it's too late to decapitate my pencil now. these
words just keep flowing: my pencil's trying hard to keep up. my letters are crooked
and misshapen, and they're itching to come out quicker, but it's really for the best:

my ideas could take the lives of

far too many.


and they write and they write, but do they feel the words?


their little hands frantically jab down words of nothingness, but no one cares
about that. The words are unimportant, unnecessary, unintelligible. Words that
no one cares about
no one wants
no one needs.
they think people enjoy reading their sappy-crappy teenage love
stories. but everyone knows there no such thing as teenage