shameless

I am so tired of having to turn to a page and scream like the cynic I am. Is this pride? Too much confidence in my own ability to be, as a being, as an embodiment of to be? Is that it? 

Or perhaps I have my reasons to be accusatory.

Stop it. Stop copying my words. Stop plastering your fake, thesaurus-ed words over mine. Do you not know, that a purple headband and pink ruffles can never go together? What is it that gives you the right to claim your aspirations, inspirations, whatever-the-fuck-spirations, as, well, yours? My vehemence does not reflect, truly the sort of emotions you must hold. So stop it. For my sake and yours. There is enough brain power in your diseased, cloned head to generate more than revisions of what I have produced, of my heart, from the zeal in my typist fingers and the lone body dwelling in my head.

STOP.

If at any point, you questioned yourself of my blame, then you are very well to be blamed. There is no reason to your sentences. What you cannot achieve from my words, I have. I am the sole owner of whatever it be that allows me to crush upon these tiny letterings of a language. You? Save the world? 

Since when did Robin weave himself a red cape out of such pathetic desperation?