You want to write about the toxic ignorance of small town America, the elliptical nature of human failing, the seductiveness of that which will kill us but you don't. You sit on eggs promising they'll hatch and smash them before they do. Eggwhites and blood cover your walls.
All you succeed in doing is messing up the cage.
Aren't these things good enough for you? Important enough to you? You pretentious little shit. You'll spout off like some self-important boho schmuck, but won't create. You won't do it. Why?
You're a fucking charlatan peddling property you don't own. You're a sadistic sap soaking apathy so swiftly you can't swing this shit. It'd be a miracle if you finish this.
Apathy is your alcohol and you're a lousy alcoholic. You're so wrapped up in yourself you can't spare the effort. This is the well you have found that none may drink from; the Prometheus that hoards is chained to no rock.
Do you love the sight of your shit-stained walls so much?
Muss up your cage then, bird. Live in the filth of your own ideas. You're no majestic creature poised for great flight; just a callous crow starving in your self-imposed winter. Feed on the carcasses you've hid away; they'll get you by but get you no wear.
Muss up your cage then, bird. You are no great hunter; just a crow among millions.