I swear to god I’m still a whore for attention. Every time I write a piece, I’d still find validation. Patiently reaching out for feedback as my constant allegation. Intrinsically hoping that one day I’d be a sensation.
Who am I? How am I different from the people, who post up everyday on the instant application. Not asking for anything, but secretly begging for likes. How are we different from the beggars by the drive?
I swear to god I’m still a whore for attention. I’d still think about how I can get more retention. To cement the level I instilled in my craft. By counting the heads that registered for my draft.
So I turn my eyes inward and preach to the voice inside my mind. Preach to the submarine that’s submerged below the line. Pet his head, and the fur across its body. Telling him he’s sufficient and he needs nobody. He needs no whoring to hold up his sword. The eyes of many does not sharpen it more, only the ones who’s patient to hone the blade, will slay the dragons forevermore.
