Fingers on the keyboard

I sit posturlized against the back seal of my king sized bed, with my hands layered out across the blackened but, largely surmounted keyboard, hoping to come up with some kind of useful thoughts to type;thinking of anyway means nessecary to conjure a conjectured idea, so that in some regards, i can prove to all of you that i should be mounted upon the poetical throne, despite my seemingly prolific jealousy, in the reality, i truly am just searching for a reason to show that i deserve that homeage; no matter what the majority think. The mixture of doubtful innocence pours its garments over me, proving that i am just fearfully awaiting the moment that pedastul becomes my own home, when the oppurtunity arises, where feet no longer need leveled ground, where all other writers have no sound reason to even say that i am the very best; they all know it, i know it, no one has the courage to say it; despitefully knowingly, how that possibility is impossibly insane, however true in itself; but of course they just keep talking. I read through everyones writings on writerscafe.org, scamming and skimming through it all knowing, that every word i read comes without feeling and without and impressive impressive upon my own factually reading eyes; this too shows me that i criticize truthfully without error, though you shouldnt get the idea that i am some perfectual self centered writer with the thought that he has the divine wisdom; because i dont, although ive written literally thousands of papers, poems, stories and on, extending the longest equation that you could lay your eyes on. Clicking through them i cant find one worthwhile, readable material piece; so i give up on finding someone on my own hemisphere, and then i repeateadly check for views, though i know this has become some sort of a gesturial forthcoming obsessive ransom for my own consideration and excuse to prove my satisfactory lack of feeling true, so that i can relieve myself the filth of having to continue to feel as though ill never be considerably recognizably seen as my writing so shows and has proven for as long as the best of you have reviewed in your heads or with your fingers to the keyboard like my own, knowing that i really have no equal in this profession; i must bluntly type it out, I proclaim and confess, that i am truly the best writer on earth. But, I think back all the way to kahlil gibran, william blake, rumi jalaludin, edgar poe, william wordsworth and to robert burns, to jesus or Muhammad, that if they were living, id have troublesome feeling in putting into action the words or phrase of" I am the best writer on earth"; but since they arent- and since they never will be resurrected- I sit here typing more so that you all can only feel my anger and rage, and still knowing that i myself know of my highness, you can enjoy your very selves knowing that I am without defeat in this type zero idea of competition in the subject of writing. So, i finished typing as the night began to pass, and the sky and the clouds passed away, so did my passion to write away the words on my chest, as they fell below my organs, confilling and coinciding within the pain that couldnt and wouldnt be released from me, until, yes until, they all admitted that i was the best on the planet in this profession. Ideed, he shouldnt ever stop in his commitment to keyboard his thoughts over to you, no matter how provoctively negatively, pessimisstic they may be, you shouldnt be apt to go unoticed his preciseity and propensity in pure skill and how that if you looked over it, it could serve as a certain and definite optimism; if you all would simply look closer to the inner lines of my writing. Here we end with finger to key, keypad to fingers, hands to the space bar, thumbs rested, and heart at ease; only to finish with a hard suppression as he sat blankly on the board of blackness thinking to himself whether or not they'd ever realize how important a writers heart is to his head and his hand to his fingers, to each and every nerve, neuron and environmental idea that would transpire every single thought that made that perfectly written work of any writer on the earth. Maybe thats why its so difficult to write such a great work he thought; and he continued to write until his fingers and hands went numb. And he knew that he was the greatest, everyone knew it. He knew that he'd never get the respectability and proper spot that he deserved; Not in this world anyhow.