Lines flicker on the page, like the boots on the dance floor.
Do I keep typing this out? They will know.
Aesthetics never really got to me, damn I’m such a bore.
Can I aspire to greatness? They will judge.
I wish I could travel down to the shore.
Will I learn from my mistakes?
I’m cold. I hate the cold. It makes me stiff like a door.
I don’t know what to write?
I don’t how to write?
Does that make it less of a writing?
Or do they know the wrong from the write?