I've always hated margins

I wish I could eat my pen.

And the ink inside it, and all the paper in my notebooks,

And all the books I've written tens of thousands of times

Over and over again in hopes of becoming perfection.

Maybe if I destroy all my mistakes, I can become perfect...

I've always been taught that anything that isn't considered the best

By everyone is absolutely worthless. I mean look at me.

I'm a godamnn mess. An arrogant son of a bitch with the gall

To call himself intelligent because of a few pretty words.

What a fuckn joke. I'm a minority, I'm American, I don't have money,

I CAN'T have talent. And I never will, either.

I've always hated margins.

I write and I write, until the ink fills the page.

And then I stop, and I see all the mistakes I've made,

The words I should have written,

And I start trying to cram things in corners.

And it looks so damn ugly.

Like the dead man who cries at his own funeral,

Trying to hold back tears of shame as people

Pour over his many mistakes.

I try to edit them, make myself look good,

Like some sort of Saint or superhero,

Morally grounded, never wrong,

The prime example of humanity.

But it doesn't matter.

Because no one's actually watching.

Nobody cares about my accomplishments,

Or my mistakes for that matter.

It's just me, alone here, crying in a graveyard

As I bury myself alive with harsh remarks

And ugly words.

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