I am a writer. A writer that cannot find the words to write down this emotion. A writer out of many. I am not unique or special. I don't stand out. I'm just a writer with a head full of words and a soul full of feeling. I'm your everyday human.

Medically, i'm boring.
Socially, I'm entertaining.

I write while others sleep or fill their lungs with love.
I think while others talk.
I laugh while others cry.
I breathe while most stop.
I'm alive, weather it feels like it or not.

But, least importantly, i'm just a writer.
A writer with a head full of jumbled words and a soul filled with both love and hate. A body that feels numb and a heart for a home with a draft coming in due to little insulation. I'm a tad bit bitter, but aren't we all? I'm far from joyful, but most are now a days.

People change and so does this world.
People are at war with themselves.
People are disgusting.
But i'm a writer, not a person.
I'm a human, not a number.
But to most, i'm just there. Nearly the background music to their lives.

To me, I am a wall. No one gets in and no one can break it down. People have tried, but never succeeded.
I am damaged.
I am a writer.

To some, I am a friend.
To others, a stranger.
To very little, a lover.
To one, a hate.

But I am not any of those things.

I am flesh. Bare to the whole world.
Bare *****.
Take a peek inside, you'll see.

People say they're a lot of things. But realistically, in the end of it all, we're all dust intertwining in eachothers specks.
Holding hands as the ship goes under.
All claiming we're the captain.
Where'd the individuals go?

Well, i'm right here. Standing alone. Waiting for something that is actually nothing.
To me, I am an individual.
To others, I am everything else.
To the world, i'm almost non-existant.

I don't search for anything.


But for now, I walk this Earth like many others.
I am just your average person.
Just another writer.
I am just bones and flesh, covered by a sickening disguise.

People say beauty is everywhere, but that's only to the naked eye. Take a look around, you'll see.
Take a look around in me.
Beauty can't be seen by anything.
It's hidden beneathe the depths of the oceans and the heart of the world.
It's hidden within everything.
Beauty is out of reach.
The world is too covered to see it.
We made it this way.
We made this world ugly.

But what do I know?

I am just a writer.
Your average joe stranger.
I am your sleepless dream.
I am your weakness.
Your strength.
Your hate.
Your love.
Your entertainment.
But I am not yours.
I am not anybody.
I am me.

I am an individual and this is why I stand alone.
I am content.
I will manage.
The world will still spin round, once i'm gone.
Aswell as once we're all gone, because the world waits for no one.