Can I be a writer without being a journalist?

Of course, right?
I want many things out of life, I want to be many things, see many things and experience wonderful things.
But there's something breaking me.
I would love to take photos, and write for a living - travel and write the stories of the lives of other people.
The last thing the world needs is another "Miss. Hope" writing about the "poor" from a place she deems unfit for civilized persons...
I'd much rather come as close as I can to walking along the path they've walked, see people as people, and let them tell me what no one else will hear.
I hate this cliche but I want to do it for a living.
I want to help and give until I have nothing else to give.
My time, years, work, hands, my voice and ears.
Lend out me, it's the least I could do.

Never enough for opening night

It's like doing what you can do is never good enough. you try and try to make the things in your life work, but all you end up doing is fucking it all up.

like Art.

You can se it in your mind, you can struggle with the same thing everyday, you can try and make something ugly beautiful, but it might never happen. You have people who know how to do it, not show you. They think theyre helping you by allowing you to fall on your face so that you may learn a lesson. Again and again they do this until they're sure you are learning. but you're not, you're lost and can't find your way out.

Hm, wasn't really sure about my announcement.

I am not sure how to say it out loud and embrace it. Anything celebrated in my life usually dissolves and becomes weak. So weak it crumbles and leaves me.
I am appreciative, I am in an infatuation of love. I have created an outlook which to hold my life too, why.
I am intrested, I want to know more.
I gaze into his eyes, knowing something's different. But what can it be?
Is it he who is strange, or I. Will I find something so disturbing that I cannot look past?

From his silhouette next to the silhouettes of men past, this cannot be as bad. this can not be horrible, and I am not shallow. My love for others stretch far and wide, I do not see the mistakes or troubles of some, but the great that is waiting to come out. The new I never get to see, the love they have to show, and the unique life they will spare me.

From what I am  witness too, to what I am guilty of, a tamper dove of ignorance seems to fly through.
I am disturbed, I am insane, but I am also obsessive.

Obsessed not with those I am with, nor those I meet, but with the lives they live and the eyes I gain.

Insufferable pain

I might just die, the pain throbbing through my system, flowing in and out my vessels I cannot be still.

Ouch...

I would rather be done, rather be gone, my dramatic stay cannot be any longer. Put me out my misery and throw the stone.

I am done. 

Hm...

I'm nervous, I'm scared and I'm worried...
What is wrong with me? I feel myself acting out, being strange... what is it about him that I am so willing to give my life to his feet? Can I not control myself? Are my knees too weak to sustain the constant led foot of my heart?

I wake at night, thinking about him, I wake in worries as to whether or not he will like me in the morning. Like a complete opposite, but yet completely the same.... I feel an infatuation of a sort, love is too lovey to simply toss.

We will have to wait and see.

Again

After time and time again I spend the hours with others, others whom I had not planned to be with- those whom became me by some catastrophic mistake.

I yearn to become one, once I've already been two; those who are happy, and those who pretend. Becoming the one who pretends to enjoy my own lonesome weather, after seeing myself as one who did enjoy it.

I'm done.

Cramps

CRAAAAAAMPS!!! I HAVE CRAAAAMPS! I'm going to commit murder!! Killin people, punching babies, fucking shit up, it huuurrrrts!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck shiiiiiit!!!!!!! It hurts sooo much, just fucking kill me!!!  My clothes are at risk, and my sheets fucking hate me!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAHGGJGFGDGEXSUEKNDJFHJDHIYWIEQHHI!!!!!!