if this is poetry,
damn right, am i lucky.
look at these sheets, stained with sin,
am i not?
my heart beat is picking.
at this rate, when will it stop?
if i fill myself with metaphors,
fine, then i'll fucking talk.
if i have no interest in becoming real,
living, breathing, just to feel,
i see no point in talking,
all of this just isn't real.
YOU ARE READING
plants are friends.
Randomthere are the thoughts of a child with a constant unstable emotional state.
