Who wrote this for you?

Who wrote this for you?

When you started writing, who wrote it for you? Did you write it by yourself, or was it your influences and your teachers, and your peers who wrote it for you? Was the work done under the influence of caffeine or nicotine? What about alcohol, codeine, or even alprazolam? Why didn’t you choose to use your time differently, why would you even fathom trying to write something that has almost no return value than maybe pleasure?

So, who wrote this for you?

Was it rebellion against the status quo set by your parents? Were you dreaming of being a Shakespeare redux to your sweetheart and thought you had the prodigy of Mozart in your fingertips? How you dared to even dream that you’d amount to anything, when you can’t even compare yourself to the contemporary. You’re no Aldo and I know you’re no Charlie or Tom.

Who wrote this for you?

Why do you think these thoughts are your own? Why would you believe the insecurities you feel are your own? Everyone’s got them in one way or another, some even died alone in small time apartment without savings in the bank. Many died poor and unrecognized like all the unknown soldiers way back. You’d believe they wrote this for you, but how could they? They’re dead. They had the same pent-up aggression, but what’d that do for you? The rage is lame like an amputated dog with a smoking habit.

Who wrote this for you?

I ask that from myself when I find myself alone. Who am I to write this for anyone? I have never studied the semantics or the orthography. The art of writing flowing phrases is a mystery and words are forever lost for me. My brain is switched off, so turn off the lights and all the other appliances. No need for more coffee, as it’s over –over and done with.

So, again, who wrote this for you?
I wrote this for you the best way I could.