Words are vain. Words are fleeting

Still I write.
It's like I'm intoxicated.
Lines running in the head.
All the time.
When I die, I'll die with few lines in my head, for sure.
It makes me sick sometimes.
Imagine! Writing making me sick.
It's like I have no control over me.
It's just words and words and words.
Damn and I'm wild and out of control.
Thinking thoughts that I call sin.
Like a savage who's been without food for thirty days,
and is out, hunting, searching, destroynig on it's way
everthing that it considered sacred.
So hungry.
The ugly beast.
Doomed by words:
those sick things that give shape to my thoughts,
those sick things that now control my thoughts,
those sick things.
I'm wild,
I'm hungry,
I'm sick,
I'm ugly,
when I write.
Sometimes.

"Zindagi ki kahaanee dil pe likhi jati hai, Kaagaz pe nahin."