I thought I'd write you a poem. It's all I've really got. A pen, some paper, and a well of blackened snot.
At first I thought about you, though you know who you are. So that would be redundant. I guess I'll raise the bar.
A sullen somber December morning. A glass filled up with whiskey. A pack of butts and this poem in case that you would miss me.
Sweaty thighs, forgotten lies, and these things we still hold onto. Tattered sleeves, worn out knees, and rats ******* fondue.
These are the things I think about when at my own devices. Avoiding **** that could otherwise turn into a crisis.
Well I'm done. I gotta run. Truth is I'm out of passion.
Perhaps I'll come around again when apathy's in fashion.