i wish i could post here like i used to.
i was a much better writer when i was younger.
or perhaps i'm more familiar with brevity now.
"brevity is the soul of wit" is actually a low key jab at polonius
just before he actually does get jabbed
i wish a lot of things i guess
that there was someone who could take out my insides
and put them back not just the way before, but better, more complete
the give give give but no takers, eh, why would you
there are places deep inside me that i hate,
wishing you could excavate me to make it all hollow inside
and i'm mean, and i'm bitter, and i feel the scowl eating my stomach
the coffee i drink so i don't eat stains my teeth, my comeuppance
i daydream so much that i'm surprised i'm not asleep on my feet
an aspiring alcoholic with no desire to follow through on that folly
and in those dreams, my special wisp of smoke someone holds my face
and kisses me, or doesn't, breathes my air until i'm happy again
you're not real. you'll be the death of me, my longing thrown to nothing
and the bar is low - please, just please don't hate me, and brush your teeth
am i miserable because i'm lonely, or am i lonely because i'm miserable
i don't know, but i'm not sure i care to find out either
