a silent scream for self destruction, begging to manifest. to run through the streets. to throttle the shoulders of every painted whore, smells of decaying blooms and glossy plastic ashtray smiles: "what the fuck is wrong with you!"
what the fuck is wrong with me?
a more lovely sight, this ode man has built to shit and himself, there has never been. tear it down and rebuild it tenfold. men and women emptying themselves. pretenses plummeting to the centre of mass preceded by egos. they jumped out the window. they have nowhere else to go
No comments:
Post a Comment