we argued that i could change, but we both knew i couldnt

so...im out of fucking cleaver things to say. i got nothing left. i got nothing worth writing. i am used. its too late.

oh "this sucks" oh i "wish i", oh how i "should of", oh "society", oh my "insecurities" oh "people", oh my "feelings", oh my "drinking", oh my "loneliness", oh my "horniness"

i never liked your poetry, i dont care about your expression, im sick of you talking about your feelings, your manifesto, you self propagandist of your theories, i dont want to hear about your suffering, professional failure, i dont give a fuck about your whining, your incapability to grow up or live like a normal human being, weak, feable, complainer, shitting on yourself even now, are you looking for pity?

self expression? whats the worth? repetitive, uninteresting, wrapping up metaphors to make our lives out to be some important fable, trying to expand our meaningless existence.

fuck writers, i dont even like em, how did fate hit me with such a bore, writing down drunk notes on napkins, lookin at em later thinking "hey thats really something!"

its really nothing

wheres the hanging jury when i'm feeling like a criminal