Warped to perfection indeed

[Bodey]

Dear diary, don't try to silence me. I'm in dying need of writing these proprieties. Anxiety isn't fine to me, it seems to pry me on my knees. Even after lighting piney trees it hurts for me to kindly breathe. My mind is free from this mighty siege providing me with lightning sheets thundering my dreams. I'm fine really, it's truly not a big deal. Up nights dealing with how you actually feel isn't the worst thing to conceal. Watered-down bourbons marking you for worthless, hoping you can walk around without feeling so nervous. Hoping you can step outside now smellin some sense of purpose. It's concerning, the things that still irk me since I turned thirteen-- thought for sure maturing was dirtied by puberty but now I'm almost thirty, stomach's still turn-ing. I scribble a bit after takin a shit, drink up a mix and take a couple of hits, just to crash out and wake up to whatever I writ', and then judge it like a critic for wits, and end up kinda pissed over what little I did. You're ridiculous, kid. So damn hard on yourself. You bargain your health to get retarded and melt, might as well be starvin yourself of the good things in life: good karma is wealth, your heart carvin what's felt after doin things right.