an intro to nothing uncommon

American stomachs have ached with the rapture of a promise, a promise to conquer the world on an arrogant whim. I'm just another American waiting my turn. I'm staying calm, not squirming in my seat, just being a well behaved student. The dreams that have created our national identity since the organization of of public schools, clandestine speeches, and all that shit we're afraid to not believe are resting in the tree tops: plucked, they legitimize years wasted on a guitar and random notepads in several families homes all over Jackson County; ripened and wasted, they legitimize a society critiques on a wayward mind. I'm fucked from toe to top. Chords, clangs, and beats are the only sounds I can stand to hear longer than a week. My writing is atrocious to a English major or a gifted junior high student, pretentious to the rest. Oh if only life was a simple as a run on sentence. If only I could say what I want and keep on adding my thoughts from second to second, all motivated by these chemicals excreted from glands and making their way to different areas in my brain, creating moods and this horrid fucking frame of insolence. I bore you because I bore me. AND this is the intro to nothing uncommon, someone wanting to do something they can't. With me, it just so happens to be writing.