I dressed in a black tie suit.
And we had situated all of us into a line.

I'd felt blessed with us.
with who we were
because all I knew was insanity.
Blame me for feeling,
but I never knew.

I never showed myself
about life.
and nothing else.
Nothing much.

I bunched up a hitch in my parts.
And I started on how far we should feel.
So I dealt with it...
and that's my deal.

Seven mentions, Seven mentions was all I had after
she died and it was up to me to check her phone.

It lessened the pain of death,
which felt right.

But also, it lessened the joy of life.

How did this happen?
Why is this happening?
What sort of deal did I do
that left a rust knife
shoved into me.

Blue veins bleed red blood.

White clouds can cry grey rain.

And perfect little packages can
abstain from turbulent life.

Living is a knife in the ribs,
barbecued in riddled coiled proteins.

It's obscene how dumb luck is.
It's obscene.

It doesn't even mean anything.
It's only a way to bring yourself back from where you came from.

I had crammed a whole load of garbage
into the bed of my best friend's pick up.

Luckily it was made by us
as a message of how unassuaged
we were about living in a dirt bag all day.

So, I should say that this is a win.
I'd even sinned in my pants while
leaving everything up to him.

Only thing I regret binning was
my huge win I had with a hippy girl about a day ago.

I stuck a melted crayon right into my forehead.

And I let it melt into my eyes until my tear ducts bleed.

I even had had the nerve to show my never-face.

I gurgle up an explanation of why my life's a waste.


Even still, I packed my lunch.

Just caffeine and old shoes.
The things that make me love life's color
and love all of it's hues.

Clipped in paper matches was the edge of horizon about midday.

So, I slipped into a undergarment that would match how I felt

and say so much about me, without even saying a bit.

Shipped into a waxed box was all of my letters,

held steadfast, to secure from shock, and from the shaking
of rain against all my faulty, falsely made paper packages.

in the corners of your eyes

inside the corners of your eyes.



How held up had you felt to not rub the corner of your eyes?

How tired must you've been to sin so much?

and not even care enough
to rub the corner of your eyes?

The last of us is lies
and all we do is make cheap soap.

Our bloodiness only helps us die,
and with out good leaders we've lost all hope.

Seven days
laid out in a lawn.

Leaven air in ways
that we can smell at day

It's only shade
when fires burn at eve

It's the only way...
air breathes, too much for us to grieve.