i wrote this on a sunday over a year ago, on my phone, and found it last night. 

IT’S SUNDAY.

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.