it only takes one little spark to start a fire

to change everything.
sometimes i think i'm some genius.
sometimes i just don't think.
always putting the act in practical.
and the point in disappointment.
i'm trying, though, at least- to be something better.
but i can only be as good as the worst things people have done to me.
like working with 100 bits and pieces of something amazing following a directions sheet written in a foreign language.
seems like i am always reaching for the biggest goal and ignoring all the little ones accomplished along the way.
the paragraph vs. the page.
i look out at the city as it passes by the window and i wonder why i can't just finish my book.
why can't i write or focus on anything but one liners and liars?
i get hooked on people that seem care about me because i want to know their secret-
i want to be able to care about me too.
it's a hopeless cause but still a cause.
how can i write a book when i feel like my life is a story-
like i'm the main character of a book i don't even want to read.
a book i'd put back on the shelf if i had any say in it.
still for some reason i'm fascinating enough to be on your mind.
what makes me tick vs. what ticks me off.
an unfinished painting that still is drying you can change before the last stroke.
work in progress or maybe just regress.
maybe you can figure me out before i can.
i've lived a sheltered life because i haven't lived at all.
i can't relate, ever, to anyone-
i've never lost anyone close to me to death.
i've only ever lost them to life.
see also: i like feeling like i don't need you, maybe you're as replacable as you've made me feel.