To tired to write a million words or put my thoughts onto.......
paper made from unlucky trees unable to grow tall unable to.
speak the works unspoken the ones that have me chokin with the,
rhymes
we knew as children and wrote with crayons we
never shared
things borrowed and never given back
to the past in my time machine made of
the cardbord box..... that held the tv which
was stuck on porn that morning
flooding a young mind with images of moving bodies [locked}
the doors to keep me from running
over the hill and through the woods to my dealers house where I
bought some candy so sweet so good and proceeded to
shoot up and blaze until everything was
blank like an empty canzas where I would paint
my body with my hands and colors and
sooth the burn of wounds that were
made of broken mirrors and busted pinatas
filled with sugary
death that tasted like shit but felt like
the greatest sex I've never had but dreamed of
more delicate things of lace and glitter to
blind you with my lies so that I could
curl up in my shell and
sleep sleep sleep
and I would recuperate in hopes of
redeeming myself for wrongs done to
[myself]
...............all because
I am a selfish shellfish
so fry me up and set me down with a side of butter right on
A satellite dish where I can contact
ET and we could
phone home wherever that is and meet the
little bird, singing twisted songs............. about
little
ole
me
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