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.