I Need To Write

I need to write. Write out the things that I can't let go of. All of this anger needs to come out in some way, shape, or form. The way, shape, or form that is most relevant to the world. My world. The world that shoots, kills, and drives people insane. Insane to the point where the world has no sanity. No sanity to keep things in order. In the order that lives up to impossible standards. Standards that are upheld by the way we treat ourselves. We all too easily forget what to do for our satisfaction. The satisfaction that is accomplished in the earth by the things of the earth which doesn't benefit the imaginary reality on this earth. And this earth bears our sufferings and shortcomings that will neverdisappear but will always remain unseen. Unseen as to where it is beyond the naked eye but has yet to expose its views under a microscope. A microscope that zooms in and out of the nebulas of this universe that houses extra-terrestrial beings as they look down at us from millions of lightyears away, shaking their heads and mutter the words " If Johnny had never went to jail." And as Johnny sits there in the penitenti-area with unknown sights seen of him,he sits there and he writes. Pen to paper Johnny pours out his emotions. Johnny empitied out his little soul. He empties his life onto the tiniest strip of a tree called paper. And he lets his hand glide across the paper to let me know what gets bigger the more you take away from it. It's a hole by the way. The way that he left so many people whose tempur-pedic mattress is now a five,six, or seven foot box, depending on how tall they were. They were all writers. Writers of the mind, soul, and spirit. Which is why I need to write. Oh yeah, Before I forget, Johnny was the gangbanger by the way. He was a writer too.