it’s writing and writing and writing
and then free falling
the glimmer in his eyes only ever gave me solace
in the easiest time of the century
when worrying didn’t even cross my mind.
it’s writing and writing and writing
and then crying
a lovesick baby, a two-faced wannabe
it’s better to be invisible than living life lying about being meaningful.
it’s writing and writing and writing
and then failing,
this time on stage
in front of an audience of about ten million narcissists
they say my emotions aren’t art
and the shakiness of my breath—the sweatiness of my hands—is manifested.
it’s writing and writing and rewiring
have you come to terms with knowing that you were doomed from the start?