The Color of Honesty

He takes their posters upon his wall of nothing and imagines what it would be like to be one of those faces. He painted: it was a siren racing through the city, jealously regretful.

This is where he took pictures of used whores under porcelain lights. caught in the headlights, they were ready to begin, ready to break a run for it.

He smelt like chocolate and drank cheap beer because it was better then being alright on the outside. He had an artist come to his house not once but several times.
I spoke of honesty, he never quite understood.

There was a small gap in his heart, where he was wounded.

And I know what it means to be in love--it means that you have forgotten to forget the truth about love.

People will waste away in coffee mugs and bad habits, cigarettes and cliche excuses to be men, people will be remembered for nothing other than a stamp on their arms.

Like it's just one beautiful play, one bullet between the eyes, one panic attack on the train tracks, one last drink before you die. There is no honesty left in this world...nothing but fear and hopeless egotistical fucked up lies.

I might write emotion on a canvas, her colors would mock me. If I wrote happy in a poem she might just laugh at herself. But, if I wrote honesty and said forget about the poetry, and I hated the words and I hated these excuses for a dream that never existed maybe then she would finally see that it really is meaningless. We are all a delusion, there is no point- the lie is that we believe ourselves to be true.