Something needs to be left unsaid.
Except some people loves to speak to cause others harm.
For the cheaters that creep.
What's the purpose of telling?

Notice that these suddenly high and mighty moralists wasn't thinking straight at first.

Some people has profit greatly from their dirty work.
For every sin within the world.
You find them all in the holy bible.

Solomon, the one many uses in sermon as wise.
Was no different than his father?
Who had a mistress on the side.

Like, I something needs to be left unsaid.
Cause those doing wrong will play like your words don't needs to be heard.

Secrets needs to be hidden from a few.
Cause the harm you done to others.
With eventually comes back upon you.

We know the line-those without sin shouldn't cast the first stone.
But there's always some that do.
And then feels hurt when their past emerges.

Just remember nobody's perfect.

i want to find a marker
the exact same hue
as your skin tone
and draw all over myself
in some sort of
childish rage
and pretend that
this doesn't hurt anymore
at least
not as much

i want to walk into
an empty theatre with you
and sit on a seat
and watch you breathe
and tell you
you're a blockbuster

i want to sneak out at
a quarter past midnight
or 11.45
and sit on your rooftop
with you
and smoke cigarettes
and feel completely
corrupted

i want to get all the
money i have
and bury it in some cool dirt
then dig it back up again
an hour later
and feel rich

i want to get into my car
and drive until
i think i feel okay again
and then
just keep driving

punchline -
i want to be dead

+

I had so many chances
to give us a chance
I past you in the hallways so many times
but I shuffled by casually
and pretended you were just another boy
when you most certainly were not
oh no, not to me.
We conversed with our eyes
and they told me enough to know
that you wanted me too
I knew, oh I knew
but on that last day
I made a most detrimental mistake
and instead I decided that my nerves
were worth more than my heart.

-cc

I'm in love with feeling down
The feeling stays through towns
I pass along the way
Each more beautiful than the last
All of the emotional nights have found
To be just as therapeutic as the sounds
That abound in my thoughts
As they race towards the past
Back to the future where they all merge
A keyboard circuit surge
An electric strum
A soul being purged
With the words I'll hum, tell, yell
But first let me ask
Do you have a cig I can bum?

Running at sunset
To escape impending darkness
Hopes of relief tied in like my laces
But Pausing
for a moment
To appreciate the sun’s final show of brilliance
Before I can only see it in the mirror
Like roadkill that we sped past in the desert

old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor

You can hardly see the carpet for all the clothes carelessly being trodden on. Blue holiday lights are strung around the mirror. I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger on a new, thousand dollar laptop, slick-as-a-whistle, paid with a swipe. For the past six months, I have had less than four hundred combined checking and savings, and that number dwindles by the day. I have no groceries, but I've got fistfuls of orange prescription bottles, and I was handing pills out like candy (but they are needed, much and every day).

Where did all these bills come from?
Suddenly, it costs money to breathe.

Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money, and the store's six blocks away.

I pout on my throne of dirty cotton, thinking I get what I ask for, when I ask, and it always comes--at a price! It's always over a hundred dollars more than I could spare and brings bad luck, moreso than a couple broken mirrors would, even if they were smashed over a the back of your mother's black cat.

"Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents! I wouldn't feel like I wasn't nothing, nothing at all," I say, batting my eyelashes, "Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement to the greater things in life and consciously responsible adult-like decisions?"

I crack open my father's checking account with the swipe of a magnetic strip,
it makes me seem responsible when he sees I just use it for pills and foodstuff.

(I prove I love him and he loves me this way)

Now, together, we will buy strawberries with his money,
they must be four dollars, at the very least, then we eat like the bourgeoisie (!)

I kiss the cheeks of my reflection in the bathroom
tousling my hair, tipsy, as I touch up my face by
licking the tips of eyeliner up like a cat's little tail,
the ends of eyes, coated with eyeliner as black as
my tightest velvet pants and dark, dark heart.

We go together.

You should move to a big city
and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
chattering of sugar-white beaches
as I cross the seas all on a plane,
all the while drunk on red wine,
twirling my fingers around, with
bags under eyes, a little anemic

(I think it adds to the glamour)

We will go out to a dimly lit place
We will go out dancing then after

I will put on dab perfume under my ears and on my wrists,
I will wear black tights for pants, but first, do a little cocaine
and you will fasten the clasp on my silver necklace tonight,
while I smoke, before helping me put on my favorite fur

And we will go see Andy, at the factory
I hear he's doing something
with that Basquiat fellow (!)

I will go follow false luxuries, come with me.
I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,
just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
until I die, or something else.

I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.

Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
sucking on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.

Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.