she dances like a fool at the idio… gracelessly fueled by cocktails and

this shirt screams “i’m not still fucked up from last…

time reduced to ash all the clocks were made of fire burning each second

we all trip over our own comfort and wherever we land is the lie we build a home on whatever love is we only do it when we have to

just for fuck’s sake don’t write it about her i know she loved this song but you loved it before her

when she doesn’t love you the guts are pulled out from insid… life spills from the bones and your heart forgets to beat you become a ghost

isolated Sunday bicycle rides tend to compel long winded speeche… character dialogues from stories i… and plenty of l’esprit d’escalier i speak with the dead

i was born in a basket of apples out of place from the start always berated by questions like “where is your stem?” “why are you so round?”

on a good day a poem is just a death threat to e… on a bad day it is a love letter

i wanted to vote but looking at the ballot i wondered “for what?”

he looks off into the distance as if god exists waiting beyond the winds with some kind of answer he looks on dating sites

though it takes a daily muster of all you got empties you out and leaves you wanting

loading the chamber to kill that which he fears most one round will suffice

so I am supposed to divulge enough… for someone to make an informed de… and certainly it is understood tha… for a while it’s the decorum of crazy