Love. Been there done that. Suffering. Over it. Happiness. Fleeting. Depression. Who does not suffer? Loneliness. Make a friend already.
If I have to write a poem about my feelings one more time; I will physically bleed from my eyes.
I cannot read a pansy’s cry for help. Wah, wah. Like a fucking baby. You live. You struggle. You die. What is so hard about that?
What about me? What about you? Find yourself, a place to cry and call it a day.
Go into your hole. Don’t come out. That’s your life. Once this civilization ends, future archaeologists will discover your fossil. They will say, we found a loser from the past.
Poems are dead. Writing is archaic.
Computers with no emotions write better than any writer could. There is no real writer. They do not exist in this world of desensitization. Only loneliness, which create the worst type of stories.
You will never be able to make a compelling tale with only one person.
That’s why your life sucks.
You archaic artist, don’t you realize that you will never be able to survive without giving up on your hopes and dreams.
Archaic fossil; you will not be remembered.