i need a crutch, not a blind guide who needs my shoulder as much as i need theirs

sometimes i don’t know where my own words come from, like i go into some sort of trance and suddenly, theres a page filled with words that were probably better off alone without me coming along and ruining how perfect it had been completely pristine. theres a strange sort of beauty locked away in emptiness. just so simple and honest. it’s a comfort for me to finally be able to wholly understand something for once without the great mysteries of life and my imperfections being dragged into the goddamn mess. i get the tiny fibers that press together to make a sheet of paper. i get the ink. i even get the sounds of far-away chainsaws hacking away at what littles left of our planets rainforests and all that bullshit. i get it. i just don’t know why i insist upon fucking up something so impeccable with words that might as well be the stains from a broken pen, since thats all theyre worth anyways.
it strikes something inside of me. less like "strike up the band" and more like how "the stroke of midnight" feels for the prince or "third strike, you're out"