I can tell that
you can't tell
that you aren't
going to be famous.

You helped **** a kid
by selling him laced candy
because you were trying
to buy an acting career.

Your suicide threats
and cries for help
turn me on.
Because.
I would love
for you to die.

And if you were dead --
as dead as the dirt on
the graves you've helped fill --
I wouldn't sleep better or worse;
I guess I would just be happy
knowing that someone would
be able to sleep and wake up.

They put you on the evening news
and you laughed about it on twitter.
Because you are a river
teaching drowning lessons
but not taking responsibility
for the cornflower blue corpses
that haunt your dangerous brain
and contaminate nearby life.

You are a degenerate --
but not one with potential
or hope. You are not what
is beautiful about struggle;
you are not interesting.

You are written about
much like how cancer
is written about in journals.