Bread, peanut butter, milk, juice (the kind in the can)
December 12, 2001 @ 1:55 p.m.
Argh.
It's dark. I'm still not happy.
I slept so wrong. I woke up and I felt violated, unhappy, still sobbing in my mind.
Dark, now.
realistic, you're a fuckin' moron. I don't give a hermit's blow job about what you think about my poetry. It's obvious you have no control over any language, English or otherwise, yourself.
Poetry is to be made, not read.
Poetry is to be loved, not lost.
Deal with that, motherfucker.
<< | >>
- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006