Perhaps my internal screaming and internal dreaming is bound to remain internal. I am an open wound walking without aid and the will to fight. I have become bloody and infectious.
I am losing my mind and the only body part allowing me to scream are my blood soaked thighs and my eyes.
My hope for writing some thing that appears to give a shit is too great. But how can I possibly write things I do not feel for the life of me. For the literal fucking life of me, I do not give a shit.
YOU ARE READING
My Boring Escapades.
Poetry"Breaking free from the thoughts of others." Not alot makes sense in this book. Its not supposed too. They most definitely might be terrible, its just my way of keeping track of things I write no matter how terrible. These are unedited, theyre only...
