I write for the few moments of bliss when the random claps and whistles die down and I make my waltz of fame back to my origin and the next poet rises.
I write for faking like I understand, only to understand that I don’t. I’ll live happier to have never known.
I write for having something that I’ll never lose, poor or rich, dead or alive, my poetry will remain.
I write for an excuse to lie, and break rules.
I write to be wrong.
I write for every man standing in the rain with an ego under his arm, and a never-to-be dream.
I write for everyone who ever reads, and for everyone who ever writes.
I write for those who burn books to have fuel for the fires.
I write for the next Anti-Christ to read between genocide slaughters, finding some biblical meaning to his cause.
I write for the high of being ignorant to reality, to paint my own colors by choice and not numbers.
I write for me. For me and the last 16 years of bull****
My parent’s purple smoke
All the broken stained glass windows
And the last pain that lingers on through the night just before the blackout
I write this life of words,
And will die with a pen in my hand.
I write for faking like I understand, only to understand that I don’t. I’ll live happier to have never known.
I write for having something that I’ll never lose, poor or rich, dead or alive, my poetry will remain.
I write for an excuse to lie, and break rules.
I write to be wrong.
I write for every man standing in the rain with an ego under his arm, and a never-to-be dream.
I write for everyone who ever reads, and for everyone who ever writes.
I write for those who burn books to have fuel for the fires.
I write for the next Anti-Christ to read between genocide slaughters, finding some biblical meaning to his cause.
I write for the high of being ignorant to reality, to paint my own colors by choice and not numbers.
I write for me. For me and the last 16 years of bull****
My parent’s purple smoke
All the broken stained glass windows
And the last pain that lingers on through the night just before the blackout
I write this life of words,
And will die with a pen in my hand.
ᵗʰᵉᵇˢᵍ๒ᵍᵐᵃᶥᶫ∙ᶜᵒᵐ
ᴸᶥᵛᵉ ᴼᵑ ᴬᵈᵃᵐ
ᴸᶥᵛᵉ ᴼᵑ ᴬᵈᵃᵐ