Turd pile

Now here I blog of thoughts and stupidity. It comes from my mind, directly to my fingertips and it just moves on its own, carefully hovering over the letters in which it wants to press. It creates a word, shifting to phrases, sentences, paragraphs, then equates an idea. After that, new things come into my head.

What I want to pour out of my head now is the anger in my head.

But which words would my fingertips try to create, just to emulate the same anger in my head?

Words, control? What do I gain in that? Relax, focus? Then I just added another turd pile in my head.

But then what is in my head?

People? Places? Things? Work? Life? That's what's in my head?

I'll stop it.

My head, it's already bleeding of tricks, of games, of tools, maybe someday, of blood. Cause everyday, everything I think of hurts what's in my head.

Hurts what's in my head.

Hurts. What's. In. My. Head.