I’ve scrolled on here many times and I find ot disconcerting how I haven’t related to any of these beautiful souls.
Even after all of the train wrecks, the mornings waking up in my car covered in Olive Garden vomit, and the leech’s scent on my clothes, the poems written the nights before i discovered new music……its all gone now.
Faces turned into seasons, sex became boundless, and writing only sought after afterlife.
I find it hard to admit that I’m 22 years old and far over the angst of being an orphan. God, how can i keep lying to myself.
Los Angeles hurts my skull with it’s traffic and fat bloody art.
Creativity hurts more than a pen to my spine.