My world is a single day.
Everyday.
Books and holy bullshit.
Transit.
Tiny but cinematic.
I try to sleep.
But nights are beside me.
So I write in the dark.
Feeling romantic in my art.
Blah.
Just like a tampon blood stain.
My impact is flushed and forgotten.
And I am happy with that outcome.
Memorable in the moment.
Moved to the misgiving pile the next.
I am just a dying fruit tree.
You are still my skeleton.
I guess.
Lay me down
And let me sleep in gossip dreams.
We all share the same same soul.
The end of the song.
Is the beginning of the butcher shop.
For heart nor night.
God, I hate being right.