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.