i'm sick of asking if my art means anything. take my mind apart to analyze what it represents. metaphors upon metaphors fucking metaphors and birthing metaphors. to what end do i exist? for this? or this for me?

"...i should have done that plus i could have done that..."

ask me a question. no answers. abstract and reality. hate crimes and making love. all the contradictions. no stanzas. no rhymes. everything and nothing moving in line.

my take on this is simple.

none of it matters.

that's why i matter.

that's why i keep consuming and producing.

i'm sick of asking if my art means fucking anything.

it does.

5:15 AM

Love’s a quick drag on a cigarette

Between my lips

Drinking in my wine

Red like lust

Clear like lies

Clean like sex

Cascade

Consumed

*Thank you Peter Mason for the word "lies"*