The faces you make when you create,
looks like pain, silk burning,
holding in what will **** you,
(anyone can-             fill you),
but sometimes it's better to fill yourself
when you're ready to explode.

Everyone goes alone, but you're smiling about it,
and I'm smiling too, and holding onto memories,
letting go of explanations and descriptions, all read
brick and brown brick tipping over in the wind.
Snow storms calling on your birthday, lets sit in warm puddles
and eat pie.

Did you see her cry? I think I've made a breakthrough
with my speech. Speaking clearly: it's so nice to see you.
Almost nice to see people I don't like
because I've stopped giving a ****.

I didn't see her cry, but she was eaten first.

Felt myself at the pinnacle of what rage
used to be. We call it making love,
but I feel like you're just waiting to die.

Can't keep you happy for long,
just entertaining myself while you wallow,
it's hard to swallow, because I can't seem to turn you on.

I'm useless.