bad poetry for those too young to know better

one cannot live their life entirely in black and white , or tones of sepia
bleeding color and feeling
slowly smothering
until all that is left
is like a photograph from the distant past
and with as much life

desperation is a stinky cologne

obsession is never pretty. it's like bluntbutoolong nails scraping against hollow ribs, grasping for any remaining sliver of flesh to scrap up and consume and suck from beneath cracked fingernails. it is what makes me feel alive. it is what makes my eyes too heavy and burn and my brain feel like oatmeal and run too fast at the same tim


stupid need to sleep. doesnt my body know that it would be better if i didnt. obvs not.

itchy fingers, itchy palms

i want to keep inhaling and in and in and in until it can't help but explode. i want to learn new things except for where it will be hard and painful and there will be gallons of sweat and ounces of blood and several million tears. i want to be brilliant and perfect and amazing and loved and worshiped and astounded and everything but only if you give it to me on a silver platter. but i'm going to learn how to write if it's the last thing i do. for me and for the people who will enjoy the stories i manage to pull out of my brain, with tweezers and forceps and microscopes until i can make it flow and work and make them believe. and that will be my contribution to this world. hardly anyone will ever read my stories, but those who do will remember and it will make for me a place in the afterlife.

domo arigato

i totally stole the best idea for a band name from an injoke that an old friend made several years ago. recycling is a beautiful process.

i feel like something. hard to say what. it's like everything is topsytruvy and it's all just a bit too much and not enough and offcenter except when it's the elephant sitting on your chest. i should stop trying to develop insonmia. that can never end well.

good night, dear internet.

and so it goes

food made by humans is always better than fakefood made by machines.

self-destruction ain't rebellion...

and sometimes, i wonder where i got i from, this determination to do exactly the opposite of what anyone or anything tells me to do. and so i sit here, head aching, stomach growling like none other, starving as all fuck, and am bound and determined that nothing will MAKE me do anything i don't want to. fuckemall. i guess it's time for dinner.

one day, i want to be seduced by the light of a laptop monitor, our sighs harmonizing with the whir of a fan, keys clicking at random, puncuated by the clicking of teeth devouring, the blue light casting olddeathshadow light on our locked lips.

being good at being alone is best done at 3am

i bought a new pillow and it is tastycakes. my old pillows are too full of old dreams and old feathers to properly sleep me at night. the new pillow is raw and empty, a skeleton waiting for flesh. i sleep easier at night with less crowding around my head.
my sheets smell used. but not lonely, because pastme is good company for nowme and we will both chill with futureme tomorrow morning when i am counting to ten as slowly as possible so i don't have to get out of bed.

the secret to never being lonely is to have good company in your head. pick your favorite people you've never met and start talking. youd be surprised.