i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.
lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-
a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
salt in the wound
salt in the wound
angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.
turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?
choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.
-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick
of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest
speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.
i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.