even darkness is asleep beyond my window everyone but me, **** of the joke i felt warmth once and maybe this will feel like that every word in every poem inside my mind is growing, swollen my knuckles glowing white in anticipation of the credits rolling
another night. i don’t even want to write anymore. i will wake up to another day. everything is the same. i still wear the blood stained knife on my waist. waiting for me to call his name again. attached to my belt like everything else
there is this strange, soft buzz in my vision static words waft across the canvas of my consciousness devoid of connection roots stem into branches that die any lie i’ve told might as well be truth this disconnection starts beneath my tooth i try to relate through a slate of grey but every shade is skewed by rain i have not had a true friend since i was maybe… eight