Poems of shit and blood
You know, the problem with my poems is that I’m an unreliable narrator I am by nature biased in what I tell you I hate the other and I also hate the teller.
I vomit words call it a form of self expression, I bleed verses call if a form of self exhertion, I shit poems do you like them? Because I don’t.Â
I don’t run from my depression I wallow in it my own little obsession predestined misery of a cruel destiny and we only ever get so lonely.
Maybe I do hate you for certain I hate myself but it’s hard to ascertain as the lines between you and me start to blur and I don’t remember who I am.
Don’t be sad for me be happy instead in the end I’m exactly where I want and I’m exactly where I am.














