I want to stay in bed and die.
"that's alright, you're an artist, artists don't do anything until they're depressed"

I'm sick of living and I want to lunge my head into a toaster
"Think all you want, musicians don't write decent music until they're depressed"

I have stubbed my toe on the edge of existance and I want to shove myself infront of a speeding train.
Ah yes, but you write poems, poets don't write their best work until they're depressed.
(fucks to that)

I would rather use my hands to wring my own neck than touch another piece of clay.
Of course you would, but you ought to sculpt a masterpiece, because you're depressed.


And the paradox kicks in,
In the great struggle to express your distaste
Your creativity crawls toward a peak
but because everything you do and say is something
that makes your distaste for yourself grow
everything created gets cast aside


and you create a symphony of moans,
melancholy and desperate
and give up on music.

your poems fall short of any standard,
bitching and biting,
flowing like oil in a pond full of ducks.

sculpt your own demise
and claw for somebody to tell you how you feel
fall short of any standards
fall short.

shut up