Thought of writing something dark,
Something ominous and fucked,
Like I’d pick my keys and type,
“What a day to be alive,”
I’ve lived in sickness and in pain,
Some misplaced, some inflated,
Some defaced, some mistaken,
Some rewritten with such a punch,
That not an ounce of it made sense,
My mind it works in different ways,
For the better or for worse,
I see some visions that enlighten,
Push me deeper makes me write,
But still some others make me sick,
Bring paranoia loss in sense,
I find me wallowing in the dark,
A wrecking ball that never stops,
The momentum sees me fly,
From one extreme and onto next,
I spend so little time in-flight,
So when my path the center hits,
I’m yanked with force to that extreme,
But see today I saw a picture,
That stopped the motion for a while,
It was me and cousin Wheatie,
Just hanging out inside her house,
I smiled and knew that though I try,
To cram inside my mouth this pie,
This emo, gothic, broken pie,
If I squinted hard enough,
I’d see,
It’s not as bad as I make it seem.
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