(no subject)
Dear Diary,
I can't write anymore. Everything that leaves my pen is nothing by blotchy meaningless ink smeared in a series of unrelated lines and curves.
Hear me now, apocalypse king:
"these are deaf ears for which you sing."
The moon wouldn't have you, and neither will I
Behold the baroness of heartless stone
with your wicked eyes
your daily eighth is hardly an escape
in a violent sea where the bow must break.