F.T.Willz poems (prolly frank iero no one knows)

12 was a good year

My head is pounding, my intestines growl ... (i wish i could just go to fucking sleep) ... my makeshift bedroom is quaking under me.

My dream house rattles down route number in the hundreds traveling at a speed of 65 mph through the beautiful state of starts with a consonant.

no one makes a waking sound.

A breath of fresh air, a shooting pain in my New Jersey lungs (home is where half my heart is).

Brittle fucking bones, a nicotine crutch, an idiot's wisdom, and a crooked smile.

Who the fuck is really genuine anyway? Everyone's god is a liar. Everyone's face is a mask.

You can take a pill to fix almost anything these days ... (fuck) especially if you got the scratch. it's a shame they can't do more with false hope. (Shut up, shut up, just fucking shut me up.)

Hearts break, arteries clog, minds race, and all heroes will eventually fail (or just grow tired of the ungrateful people they help).

what a fucking waste ... how many trees have to die for this complaint set to ink. One day when you run out of air (or shade) you'll hate me for this. Maybe i'll feel bad or just blow it off with a smile (crooked teeth, ugly smile), either way i'm sure we'll both move on ramble on ramble on ramble onand onandonandonandon ...

-F.T.WillZ 06 (www.skeletoncrew.com)