Violets are purple, and roses are red.
Because romance and the color blue are somehow different tonight.
On this one day of the year, the refractions of light
aren't bent to the left, romance just tends to mess with our heads.
So, what I'm saying is, this year let's just watch Netflix instead.
Because why be blue on Valentines day, amirite?

I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.

whenever i have *** it feels like
i am subletting my body to fingers
and mouths and
genitals
every gentle touch reminds me
of how i am
******* beautiful,
a bombshell,
suicide blonde,
a perverted venue
surrounded by a thorny cage of ***** hair.

every time our eyes meet,
i can feel you walking the tightrope
between living out the torture **** fantasies you have
and falling in love with me.

whenever i have ***,
i scratch your back until i can feel
the skin come off and under my fingernails

urgh
unrequited love

It's been a while,
Since i drunk so much.
These days, my drug is just the smile,
I lay down, it's my new crutch.

I miss the days, that were softly red,
I miss the feeling of wanting dead.
My life is sore, but not so much more.

I wish, I wish I knew where to go.
Just sit in my calm place now, meadow.
It was all a lie, I told myself.
Instead, I put it on a higher shelf.

Do these feelings last?
Or do they simply pass.
I'm asking, not enquiring
something something requiring,
some strength and love,
is not enough, especially from above.

Was I always destined,
To be your friend or be your foe?
I do wish to answer, however, although....
I dont know, what to think no more.
I feel empty not just sore.


I feel like I've lost myself,
I ask for help I asked for help I ask for...
No more than the ordinary person.
Why can't I write how I used to?
Why can't I write only in pain.
Why can't I write when I'm feeling sane.
What is this curse?
What is this verse,
could it be any worse?
I feel so numb,
Down to my thumb.
I feel like I've lost my brain.

I feel so alone,
Yet I feel not alone.
I feel like I've lost again.

Well it finally happened. I've become too depressed to write.

you love her
you love her
you love her, you do

And you know
that she loves you
You know it, you do

And you know why
She does that
you know it, you do

somewhere
She’s sorry
You know it, you do

But she hurts you
And Turns
Your heart shades of blue

when she makes out with that boy
tucked away by the quiet cold outside the bar’s backdoor

when she ***** that girl she’d been dating months prior to you
Just to make sure you’re the one that she loves

when she has that *******, the 3 minus you



You’ll know you’re a *****
a ******* fool
But you’ll be ****** up
Beyond love-struck
There’ll be no help for you

This is a compilation of all the ugly things that lie in my head right now.

I've almost spent a whole season away from you, (I was hoping the cool air would be cleansing)
and still, the thought of you bubbles the acid in my stomach and makes me cry out.
I forget what it's like to be close to a person.  (Tell my friends I said hello.)
Trust is an imaginary concept, amirite? I don't think I did. (trust you)
I took a bubble bath last night, and thought of you.
I scrubbed my skin raw trying to remove it.
Much like your memory, it held fast.
I've come up with a comparison.
You: dog *****.
Me: dog.
Maybe, just maybe.
I can rewire my brain...
To feel disgusted at the thought of you.
My puppy dog eyes can't bear the sight of you.
To be honest, I'm embarrassed for feeling these things.
I wish they'd go away  but   I     can't      stop     feeling     them.

i am drunk, i hate myself.
im crazy and attempting to be crazier
"sage the house" ******* random old psychic.
and the worst thing, watch it work. amirite?
i am drunk, i hate myself, so you know what i need?


snacks.