I want to go home;

I want to smell the sea.

just.to.say.something.

So the key to writing is writing, right? And you're supposed to write what you know. But what about when I don't know what I know, 'cause the world's going crazy and I can't seem to find who I'm supposed to be today. But hey. Writing's a release, yeah? So why do I feel trapped in this cylce where my knowledge is sapped and I laugh all the time, but I can't find a rhyme. Except that one. Which, frankly, doesn't even count. And it almost makes me miss the heartache or the causes of it because I can't justify pain when everything's going ok. "Who cares if it hurts like hell as long as it makes a good story?" Well maybe I don't have a story. Not anymore. Not yet. And all I can do is rewrite or sound clever. And all I want to do is feel something. The way I used to. The way I wrote it.