It’s seven thirty
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Another day has fallen away from the universe
But the answer to the question remains:
It means absolutely nothing to me
My lovely nocturnal state of deadened fatigue
Gravity, contemptuous, pulls my purple rimmed eyes down
Though I don’t know why it envies insomnia
Neither do I wish to
Too many complexities for such a forlorn soul
So much to say, but its all so cliché
My whole life’s a fake, nothing means anything at all
I’m a liar, I don’t believe in trust
I am me;
But somehow that’s wrong
I’m psychiatrically deranged, bipolar
The limitless flow of a manic depressive
I can’t help but think:
Damn these poetic mindsets;
They’re nothing but trouble
I turn up the music up a little louder
Because I don’t wanna hear myself anymore
I don’t wanna deal with these monsters
There’s too much ugliness
But the point that really makes me wanna scream
Is that all that ugliness is so damn beautiful
I don’t think I can take it
These thoughts can’t be organized
I’m a random, skeptic, kind of person
Judge that if you can
But its seven fucking thirty
...
I want to smash the clock

::had to right a poem for english about my morning....::