a poet of sorts but i'm (not) enough to give you an eyesore
Dear Diary,
My teen-angst bullshit has a body count. I believe it's six going on seven now!
2 hours left and he's gone til August. The next oldest is scar(r)ed. New room for Vodka wedding memories. Fall Out Boy and fake downs. Norma Jean and personal grudges. Half assed receptions. Lame excuses. 3 little angels. Devil in disguise. Purple skies and poison bottles never worked. I never could write a letter that meant anything. Someone old; no one new. Start this over. Go back to birth/Collect $200. Envy is the new canary yellow. He doesn't need to wake me up before he go-goes. I've been awake for months. The Boy With The Thorne In His Side vs. The Girl With Nothing Better To Write. Cups that could fit T filled with only t. Somehow I cheated myself with your rules. I dreamt about lovers so I wouldn't have to be one. She cried before she even got down the isle. Contrary to #11, this is the only letter I've written that's meant anything. Ghosts on a canvas, smoking like a chimeny. 9 masks and I've worn them all. Good luck decoding this blank page. I've never lied about never lying.
Lo(ath)ve,
The poet who's just a kid that didn't make it...who never had it at all.
My teen-angst bullshit has a body count. I believe it's six going on seven now!
2 hours left and he's gone til August. The next oldest is scar(r)ed. New room for Vodka wedding memories. Fall Out Boy and fake downs. Norma Jean and personal grudges. Half assed receptions. Lame excuses. 3 little angels. Devil in disguise. Purple skies and poison bottles never worked. I never could write a letter that meant anything. Someone old; no one new. Start this over. Go back to birth/Collect $200. Envy is the new canary yellow. He doesn't need to wake me up before he go-goes. I've been awake for months. The Boy With The Thorne In His Side vs. The Girl With Nothing Better To Write. Cups that could fit T filled with only t. Somehow I cheated myself with your rules. I dreamt about lovers so I wouldn't have to be one. She cried before she even got down the isle. Contrary to #11, this is the only letter I've written that's meant anything. Ghosts on a canvas, smoking like a chimeny. 9 masks and I've worn them all. Good luck decoding this blank page. I've never lied about never lying.
Lo(ath)ve,
The poet who's just a kid that didn't make it...who never had it at all.