ive become a stranger to my only known salvation, and im not sure what im supposed to do.
they never warn you about this on the ominous labels affixed to your mind. where is the "if you forget how to do what you once did best" option? the words arent flowing and i fear its as much my fault as it is yours. tears spew out of these tired finers into in incoherent puddles that cannot form an ocean. i miss those beautiful days gone wrong: days that lent themselves to be transferred onto paper so effortlessly. when i do manage do formulate lines, they seem so mundane; i am disgusted by what ive written. break my heart; im begging you to. take this oppurtunity and rip me to shreds. masochism, suicide, martyrdom. make me cry poetry; help me sob a masterpiece.
