I want to have something to write about, I really do.
I want to explain lifelong mysteries that have confuddled the human race for several years,
like a hundred year old puzzle waiting to be finished while sitting amongst the rubble and overgrown shrubbery, the ruins of where once an old lady sat mumbling to herself, rubbing her forehead with her thumb and index trying to fill in in the absent pieces and complete the picture,
in long relatable metaphors.
I want to push the rules aside and ramble on for once in a series of chicked scrawed print on white parchment, the kind of which would hold written rules and structure.
I want to deflower that custom and tarnish it, writing whatever and however I please,
for the purpose of maybe supporting a cause,
hoping to shed light on closed eyes as I tug on the string of the blinds of controversy,
for the purpose of entertainment,
like Saturday morning cartoons plkaying in someone's head as they envision and consume the words I am saying muted and visible with only pencil,
or just for the sole purpose and benefactor of myself.
I want to write something, anything,
just so my voice is heard by people I may have never spoke a syllable to before in my life.
I want to have something to write about,
but instead I stare at blue horizontal lines on white notebook paper,
not calling me, but rather mocking me,
as I rack my brain to pinpoint a thought to focus on, on this Friday afternoon in Engish class.