Cafes.
And instrumentals.
Corpses filled with ash and syrup.
Syrup made from a hippie that lives in the flat above me.
Never arrives to confuse me.
Amazing relationship.
Contrasts the mask that covers the realness.
The class that helped **** your demons.
And your soul.
Blues.
Reds.
And yellows.
CLouds most things.
Poets dying in eternal Affliction.
Poets who died for nothing.
Beat the poet.
Real mean poet.
Mean everything to the person inside the poet.
You can find it.
You can grow it.
You don’t know it.
Boil it for safety.
Or not.
Blues bleed into the skull.
Carve with the side that’s dull.
We turn sullen.
Create Poetry that never makes us lonely.
And always makes us lonely.
Conniptions replace the complements.
Turn hate into monuments.
And Love into self hate.
It’s gonna be great.
And always be ****.
Learn from the mistakes.
Take your life.
And miss the blade.
Rope.
Bullet.
Psychedelics.
Hallucinogens.
Genetics that makes us break.
Discover the ******* that are fake.
Concentrate.
Contemplate actions.
Rott through the smoke.
Anxious ridden state.
LIke the **** that makes up the rain.
Conceptualize Sound waves.
And destroy your fate.
Make a smiley face.
Then cry.
I like what you’ve done with the place.
Crawl into your own time and space.
Tired.
Overly tired.
It’s the nights like this that are dreadful.
Terribly stagnant..
A magnet to war.
Maggots.
Loath in fractions.
In places.
With no faces.
No patience.
Static.
Just Static.