the fuck is wrong with me

for unloading all my sins

on the girl who barely got to be

here a weekend, shit my skin’s

been eager to show

a decade or more

but no one can know

the pity whore

i am at heart,

weakness i hide behind shitty art

and vain poems about how i’m

deep cause i can rhyme,

shit close the fucking thesaurus

for once and get the rust

off your mind,

i said i was the kind

to stay up all night

so i can write

something to prove

i can love but my fingers move

when my life can’t

cause pretty lines plant

this idea that i’m an artist

but the hardest

part is being one

when my fingers are done,

when i keep talking as the pages end

because there’s so much forgotten i haven’t penned

but i keep trying and digging

into all the sins i’m living,

all the awful shit i do

and know i’ll continue to,

things i can’t say

and keep putting off to write about another day –

like the simple truth is strange

and i’m afraid things would change

if you knew

i love you.

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About the author

I don't write pretty, and I don't believe in bio's. Read and feel, then you'll know more than I can list.