I am a writer, you are not. You do not have the eloquence of words, they can only stream from a soul that knows a lot about darkness. All you know is how to bask in the sunlight because in there you feel alive. You're scared of the dark. It reflects your emptiness. You do not have the eloquence of words because your brain is a pack of empty cells that know nothing but to blink here and there, every once in a while. You think you're cool, you think you're awesome, you think you're better than the others because you can "speak your mind" out. Really? What does your mind speak about anyway? Trash, trash, nothing but trash. Because first of all, you don't know yourself. You're forever lost. Your identity depends on who accepts you, for the moment. Because people in your life do not stay. Who can stay with an arrogant, all knowing, lost soul?
You see, this is how a writer fights with someone like you. I have plenty of words that hide behind the well laid out poetry of thoughts and emotions that run around like wild rats in a falling off ceiling. These words are well reserved for you. Go on and feign affection. Go on and fake your smile. Go on and pretend there is happiness in your so-called universe. It will not stay long. It will not be there forever. Because the happiness that you call is a smoke from a burnt pile of dead dreams. No, my dear, they're not star dust.
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