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Who do I think I am?
Slut, Bitch, Tramp, Whore
Alcoholic, Fag, Pervert.
I'll always come back for more.
I don't except you to treat me with any respect
I've shattered it long ago.
Writing bad poetry to make up for my addictions.
It won't help me find Glory or Jesus.
It will only pave the path for more.
I hold myself high, on my tower made of shit
See the crown of thorns I wear
See that I'm important.
See my hypocrisy.
See my flailing in the mud
See me trying to make up for it
The only beauty I see in my fall
is the void of said beauty
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Hmm.. This is the worst poem I've ever written. I hate abstract simply for the sake of being so, but I did here. Plus, I have a strange obsession with bad poetry, so it is only proper that I create it myself
Jesus Christ. I want to shoot my angst in the head.
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Spinach in Need is Spinach Indeed
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