I think if I hurt enough.
I could write forever.
The blood is the words on the page.
With all names drawn in the skin of every girl or soul or body I've written in.

I'm just trying to make something beautiful. Make something that makes me happy.

Seeing these people in the world I live.
I know it's not real.
I know that I'm just music in flux but a different metal designed into the fabric of complexes sewn into  the crystals.

I can't sniff from my nose now. Cuz I'm 26
That's too old.
Not old enough to die.
And you're never old enough to die. Nor young enough to live.

Beer by beer we walk the streets in new lights.
All the cities offer new drains to seap into and breathe damp clusters of anathema.
Gaining asthma.


The loss from living is your lungs.
Breathing in is worth the pain of the silica of sniffing the grass spicules after a rain.

Chewing our way through cellulose and evolution of carnassials.