I can no longer write, for the ink in my pen is scarce and these waves of inspiration have receded like low tide, poor guy. I began to refer to myself in third person, which proved to be the commencement of my demise. A boy with six siblings but felt like an only child. What do you expect from a compulsive melodramatic insomniac secluded by four walls. He stopped observing his surroundings and turned the microscope on himself, only to get pissed off, He’s no psych he’s a rip off, even if you gave him enough time he still couldn’t solve a jig saw, it’s his fault. It’s his fault that he never once conversed with his old man and asked him how to handle situations. Blame him for the dodging of engagement and the declining of invitations. Let’s face it, its his fault he never took the time to interact with his family. What a pansy. He locks himself in his room and he cries to a Mary j blige tune. It’s his fault he lost faith now he’ll never be as soulful as Erykah Badu. He’s about as blessed as an ‘achoo’. A harsh dude, it’s his fault that one night he went on a rampage and made his mother cry. Blame him, for she couldn’t see depression in his eyes. She repeated over and over that he’s a blessing from the skies, but it’s his fault that her expectations were a form of suffering in disguise. Good god, he seemed to curse god as of he never knew god, while he anticipated death with every tick tock of his wrist watch. It’s his fault that he kept quiet, but when he spoke he was pushed to the side and scolded for his strange thoughts. He heard once that life is what you make it so he was entangled within his own plots. In a world of danger, he’s drowning in self pity. Finding himself silly, he grabs and fastens his belt quickly, kicks the chair out from under him and hopes that he dies gritty.