When I write it's to draw blood with a pen.
Hit a creative artery, and let the words pump out again and again.
Tonight I took my sword to myself and my friends to ease and leave the worry behind. You're doing fine.
It's a sign of the times, and one day you'll grow up and grow out of these lines.
So one more time, I'll slip under the covers, kill myself for the sake of another.
Poems dedicated to a scratched out line.
Too shy to its real motives outside of my vains
To feel great shame for a position I've put myself in again.
I end my nights in new ways
No travel Wells
No I love you s
To say
The only massacre that happened tonight
We're these poems writing themselves out to
The End
