When i eat your heart
i will make you watch

Or at least your corpse will watch
You'll sit there across the table from me
in your prettiest dress and we'll have a civilized
dinner for once

When i **** you
     It will be hard

But then again
    ****** always arouses me

The way my jagged blade
penetrates your throat

First you release your veins juices

Then i release mine

I can't wait til you get here

You are ******* dead

Pulling back trigger
Releasing your brain matter
Releasing my smiles

Its hard to move forward
When i dont know
Where forward is

So worried
Always
That i may misplace a step
Sometimes
I forget to take one

there's a lot of "don't"s that i've been doing lately and a lot of habits from the past are starting to show their faces again

i guess something in me thinks a drug addiction will help me write like i used to

probably will
it used to

i want to write out what this feeling is like but i’m so ******* sick of my own metaphors
i don’t want to write about how deep the ocean is or how i can feel this and that in my bones
i don’t want to be that kind of writer, i don’t want to be cliché
i just want to say that i’ve felt so detached lately, like i’m made of different parts taken from different junk yards and i have a feeling in my gut that i’m either going to be a really big nothing or a really small something
i want to be good at something
writing and being poetic is too easy
why are we so easily fascinated by someone who can compare two unlikely things and talk about how the sky bends and how your fingers tremble at the thought of being destructive
this is too easy