i wrote this on a sunday over a year ago, on my phone, and found it last night.
why would you care if i just died?
will you not let me liquify?
you can turn the volume louder,
but you’re preaching to the choir;
i sold my soul to passion,
now, where the fuck is my lighter?
cancer tastes like cinnamon,
and these roses are just like women;
they’re pretty when they’re fresh,
but i know all things meet Death.
but dying is just my fantasy;
im too motivated to take that test.
my current state is overrun by exams:
bullshit pieces of paper that crumple up like scams.
my home is a visual masterpiece
that i meticulously crafted out of sheets,
making hammocks and tents for love,
but nobody ever visits me, instead we always meet.
i wear clothes when i go on dates,
and the rose wears something fake.
usually it’s to impress, while i digest
the million dollar meal that i worked in excess
to be able to afford and be bored,
but, in the end, my soul becomes an envelope.
when i was little, i wanted a carrier pigeon,
and the man on the TV walked into a door hinge.
i grew up, though, and burned down a village.
people named Myself and Me had made the pilgrimage
there to live a life? or to wait and die?
some questions i can’t ask, so i’ll just liquify.