You do not
****** me,
high as hell,
give me a bunk apology,
and six months later
turn around and change the facts.
Cause they're ******* facts!
I was there,
with your unwelcomed touch.
He walked in to my rescue,
while you dry ******
fantasies
on my couch. (burn it)

You
are
dead
to
me.

I write and I write...
But it’s all useless.
All my work is gibberish.
I just rant.
Hopeing something will come to be.
All this pain is still inside me.
It wants to be set free.
So I smoke.
Hopeing it’ll spark inspiration.
Yet instead it either sparks numb or hesitation.

Muted titles come in a glass bottle,
a glass bottle with salt water and inside of it is you,
you see the sky and the trees knowing its out of reach,
and you're just trapped inside your own mind,
wondering when will you be free.

She tells me that my hands make beautiful things.
Why can’t I see it?
She expects more of the things
I can no longer give.
Stupid stupid stupid
Since when did I start doing this for everyone?

The waves have settled and the water is still.

Clear skies,
there are
no storms here.

There is always an emptiness before I drown again.