I’m such a good writer that I smash my head into walls and wonderful poetry just pours out of my bleeding skull,
brilliant words just stream out of me like blood from a self-inflicted gunshot wound!
I’m so smart that I do drugs that will ensure that I won’t write anything beyond filler and I remain indignant yet unsatisfied like a strip club lap dance with some nice stripper named holly, dancing around until you have blue balls so blue they’re like the ocean just beyond palm trees, like the shit that falls out of a dump truck as it rumbles, my brain ain’t much on this shit and I hate it but I’m learning how to be literarily humble, all these drugs and no beautiful words to run to.
Writing shit that will lead to the great disappointment that shall kill me leaving me but a suicided literary figment that was remembered as someone that had the talent but not the overwhelming power to take my addiction and kill it so I could bless these pages with everything that my gift is.
Nihilistic like a dead star with some idiot teen couple wishing upon that fucking corpse afar, discussing their future as if they weren’t staring at a galactic graveyard.
Fuck you and you know exactly what the fuck I mean, I’d have to clean up to write really mean so I’ll stay high as a kite on every substance I can find and keep writing so damn ugly it’s so pretty!
I also thought you should know that if you judge me I’ll just do more blow so I can keep writing fucked and you can keep eating my being and I can join you at the dining table where we shall consume me as we take the beauty I wrote sober and start reading, limb by limb and feeling by feeling until my heart is no longer beating and all that remains is hope fleeting.
Then I’ll be nothing, glad to be it, gone from this planet, gone from my demons, gone from everything that makes me wish I was dead, gone from the things that make me fantasizing about caressing my head with large caliber pistols loaded with hard toxic lead.
Just need to think clearly for once, none of this shit around distracting me or making me happy or sad or nuts or indifferent or fucked, just blank space where once was my beautiful mind that I am happily turning to dust.
Wait, fuck this, I will escape and smother these things that deter me, I will write so much beauty that you’ll turn to stone at the first glance of my prose and it will be left to me to turn you back into humanity with more words that may burn sting or create joy in you that I will have raised you the from the dead, reading my poems for you so that can be again