I am self destructive when I carve stories on my legs.
Just a violent, selfish machine running strictly on no sleep.
My world is burning down around me like a house soaked in kerosene.
Yet I will go on and manage to conceal each and every scream.
I would say winter wasn't my month but then again neither was summer, fall, or spring.
Haven't written anything in a while, been going through some tough stuff & just had an increasing amount of writers block. Here are words I just strung together after suffering another rough night.
