I think "not winning" has allowed a jealousy to consume me
Im so proud of my captain and excited for her captaincy..
But god ******* **** it do i want it
Want to rip the crown from her hand
Listen to the voice
The old decrepit witch that wants the beauty
God.
Save me
Save me from this vice
Provide me salvation from the evil that lives in my thoughts
Serve me with grace
Let me lead with poise
Because it was not
all for nothing
I am still me
Still a
C.

Can't let gang know i **** with this  
Can't let them know
Low-key
Actually
Unironically
F. W.
Although
Gang
Doesn't ****
At least
Not with me

******* it.

It allows you there, It warms the side of your cold face,
As you shrink in the rear-view mirror’s gaze,
Its glaring presence lingers, refusing to clear,
…Stay too long and it burns you,
The orange light wraps around your collar,
Blinding me with its brightness, hiding your  smile,
I don’t want to let go,  yet it always slips away,
But now, it's no longer bright, it leaves to the night,
It's hard to remember, but I know it was there…
Only left with a blink of you…

The Ghost Writer

As I pick up my pen to begin to write these images
In my imagination I wrote this as if it was spoken
I’m hoping to learn something
let the words say something
That I can share for you to listen
Is it paranoia or premonition?
My instincts or intuition?
Now I’m leaving it all on paper
With rhythmic melodies and elegant Eliquis
I’m doing it all for the passion
Everything written in second hand
whether it's on purpose or happenstance
The words of my Ghost and its writer is all that stands

The writer of songs wishes to compose for his lover yet to come,
he asks the night if she will come as a floret in the wind
to caress him as a candle’s light, the lyrical harmony of
his beloved is clearer than the shower of the spheres
upon the deep violet petals, he rests into slumber
as a dreamlike vision appears of her hands softer
than velvet in motion upon the strings of the mandolin,
the gazes of him and her rivet as the one, gentle hymn of their souls,
he harrowly arouses then walks to his thistly rose garden, revelation
arrives to him so he returns home to begin the inking of the symbols
on the music sheet papers, through his symphonies, he
resolves to tell the endless fables of love and tragedy.

I have endured through the shadows of despair,
chronicling the haunting spectre of suicide,
Each word a desperate attempt to vanquish
her insidious thoughts, that creep back into
my mind.

As long as I draw breath - I live to write,
and write more so, to stay alive.