Zowie Renata
Perhaps I’ll get rid of that piss-stained mattress I’ve been sleeping on. Ig: @leaderskalana
Zowie Renata
Perhaps I’ll get rid of that piss-stained mattress I’ve been sleeping on. Ig: @leaderskalana
Perhaps I’ll get rid of that piss-stained mattress I’ve been sleeping on. Ig: @leaderskalana
Perhaps I’ll get rid of that piss-stained mattress I’ve been sleeping on. Ig: @leaderskalana
whined the Health-Conscious Poet: he lied about his stagnancy because of a disaster, inanimate animation, brain fried don’t take it personally replicas buy you in a grocery store the sedated tourist replacing originality the outdated, dejected pastor is sanguine projecting a rejected sub linear voice up high, forward movement, momentary rest chastened momentum, charting a cliff diving teased disaster stuck on this lifeless object the engine no longer matters to the unbidden conductor like an involuntary narcissus like an involuntary narcissus seventy two hours on a dead-end carousel 45 minutes before the double-headed bully of time knocks me into the deep outmoded world will the depth of water as instant coffee in a toaster bath might discover analytically demonize, energize, and spiritualize, n’appel jamais l’effervescent parc des chiens involuntary inspiration vanished happiness lyrical creation angry suggestions returned darkness outside of normalcy the upper hand is half full in the curse-less fragile bipolar femme thus, art is an exhibited design for rotten apples shrieking, “ART!” an admitted, archived privilege consistant regular originality restriction causes overeating inexpensive terrorism replaces originality: whined the death-conscious poet now waiting in line to turn introspection to introspection to broadcasting their significance to omnipotence
« The knife belongs to me, » the hyena told me as I left R.E.M., alongside the remainders of my un-mathematical spirituality.
Daytime nightmares perform as the books do, or as days to for the schizoid; bleeding together, like aphrodisiac nightmares.
To start the day off, a black coffee pity party.
I am so fucking lifeless, worthless, and fruitless.
As such, a vegetable pleasure garden in the winter.
Three seeds are planted here, yet the hand pruners refuse to tenderly attend to their germination.
Due to such overgrowth, the knife belongs to me.
Work out in my Michael Kors Humbly feel like “The Shit” When I visualize blowing my brain To bits, I sit without flexibility Stimulating myself by forgetting to Be busy, I’m not easy, it’s not easy Stream of consciousness, lead me To a frenzy, who are I? Who are I? Bad grammar; are I alive? Sigh. Today, I considered all the stars Where I are, in transition; atheist, Nihilist salvation; I detect forensic Catastrophizing; shall I go back Into hiding? For bad food I bleed.
Frost on the dog Phone the bar keep Allowed no allowance At sea, meaning breathes
Bus handle noose Loud, unchecked oil Dust, candles, food Move, you are not soiled
Duck, dick-goose Proud, unchecked girl Rusty handles brood Move, you are so spoiled
Lost in the fog Alone in the deep Bound by a promise That he couldn’t keep
where did this cavity come from? I’m so disgusting today smelling of root canals and root beer lozenges bloated stomach scarred with white the old orphan scars on my bloated stomach protruding asking for some brothers and sisters the dentist refused to check me as did the surgeon as did the physician as did the psychotherapist I’m sitting in an office my mouth opens expelling its foulness I have nothing to say to it I have to habit harder