Am I strong enough?

To write?

theeeend

I have been thinking, or not been thinking.
Whichever it is, I have decided.
I don't want to be a writer, I no longer have the desire to write, so here I put my metaphorical pencil and pen down to rest and now will only write academically for whatever is necessary of me. I have reached a point of helplessness. I have reached a point of blocked creativity.
My insides cry.

Wall and Paint

Wall and paint, painted walls screening over aching fall. Oh goodness, isn't emotional bombardment fantastic streaking lightening scented melted plastic. I fuck of smelling paint it licks the sticks pink fingers open split. My scissors crafting old and new, reversing strangers, aren't you you? Or are you babies trinkling shit, I know no dangers but the truth. I'm broken like. I'm broken like, all broken like that orange bike you had and lost and found again, the men all pumping fucking lead, fly into your own magnetized rectum, oh baby that colorful spectrum, delectable respectable but oh so so detectable. The feeling of burnt rubber lacing lacy laces. The feeling of tires scraping past your bloody braces. The feeling of poison powder in between your
open
vulnerable
spaces reenactment go ahead boy, show your daddy proud and fucking pump your fucking lead. Retrieval in the broken head.

I'm a ghost

I can't even write, I'm so upset. I'm so damn angry. I'm angry. I want to hit and scream and kick. I don't want to hear a "dearest, be happy" or a "calm down, baby" whatever. I don't want to be told to shutup and be comfortable because I'm in a state of unrest and discontent. I'm at a point in my life that I hate, I spit at the fucking world and lick at the open wounds of my own fury. A fucking fire that you can't dissolve with words of empty comfort.