Draft Thirty-Five

My life feels like a draft . a dusty pile of papers stacked on top of a dusty shelf, placed next to my new shiny fancy expensive accessories . it feels like a crappy story that doesn't seem to want to start already, it feels like a fucking disturbing script of a lousy horrifying movie .it feels like a draft that does not want to be completed , it feels as draft written in all black with tiny little hearts in pink on the edges that don't make any sense at all . as if pink is gonna make things any better . but hey pink can not hide what lays beyond those black ink written words , pink can not distract no one from the truth and the fact that every word written in that draft is broken and not completed and it does not make any sense . Because i'm completed because i am perfectly fine and perfectly happy and perfectly pink ( well not that pink but you get the point ) .....
My life feels like a draft that refuses to be completed , it feels like a draft that slips through my hands every time i hold it .

My life feels nothing like it's my own , my life ? i don't even think that it's my life , i don't even think that i have written that draft , and i don't even think that i'll be finishing it any time soon .