12 was a good year”
My head is pounding, my intenstines growl…(I wish I could just go to sleep)…my makeshift bedroom is quaking under me. My dreamhouse rattles down route number in the hundreds traveling at a speed of 65 mph through the beautiful state that starts with a consonant.
No one makes a waking sound.
A breath of fresh air, a shooting pain in my New Jersey lungs (home is where half the heart is).
Brittle fucking bones, a nicotine crutch, an idiot’s wisdom, and a crooked smile.
Who the fuck is really genuine anyway? Everyone’s god is a liar. Everyone’s face is a mask.
You can take a pill to fix almost anything these days…(fuck) especially if you got the scratch. It’s a shame they can’t do more with false hope. (Shut up, shut up, just fucking shut me up).
Hearts break, arteries clog, minds race and all heroes will eventually fail (or just grow tired of the ungrateful people they help).
What a fucking waste…how many trees have to die to for this complaint sent to ink. One day when you run out of air (or shade) you’ll hate me for this. Maybe I’ll feel bad or just blow it off with a smile (crooked teeth, ugly smile), either way I’m sure we’ll both move on ramble on ramble on ramble on ramble onand onand onandonandonandon…
— F.T. Willz
