closed.

my spirit is gone with the leaves this fall.

an entire season slipped away, as you tell me nothing is ever good enough.

my creativity is a pointless emotion better to be squashed sooner, than foolishly lead on until later. it’s my creativity that excites me, it’s my excitement that annoys you because you don’t have time for it. you have time for nothing, if there’s no screen attached.

you shoot bullets loaded with guilt at me like a firing squad, because nothing in your life allows you to feel creative.

because nothing allows you  to feel excited.

because you like to see others die too.

your misery is looking for company, it will do, and say, anything to make me feel it too. if there is happiness around you, you suck it like straw, and then spit it like a shell.

your boots stomp any last breath out of it.

 

in another life, you loved me for who i was.

now you just hate me for who you’ve made me into.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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