Just like a blood stain

It seems the good wont come out. I have spent an hour tracing my lineage by social networks and I am amazed. Im a good writer. Really. I have some good stuff. I am able to do good things. I have an idea of what the roadblock is, but no DOT crew to suss it out. I suppose having talent really isnt the issue. A wasted life is a waste, end of story. It just feels weird to think I am writing my biography and eulogy at the same time. I can remember almost everything that caused me to write whatever blurb I did. Who it was about, what was going on where I was, whether or not I was being saracastic. I suppose it is unreasonable to assume anyone else would understand what the hell I was babbling about. I recently heard someone tell me, you work too hard to be simple, although if he could see inside my head he might be disgusted how effortless it all is.