Creepy Titles


I write and I write and I write and I write

As people keeping dying and dying some more

It doesn’t make a difference anymore, I don’t feel okay

Words and catharsis have long given up on me

Its all pointless, this life in a box

I want to go home, but where is home?

They are selling it, the last I heard

Gathering dust, that house

Fading wallpapers, ones I chose so lovingly

Fading memories, on sale now.

But its all fine, I have creepy titles for my dank poetry

To make me feel better, that life is sunny again

And so I write, I type, I puke it out

And they think its art.

 

 

 

 

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