Your depression doesn’t make you
A better artist –
You aren’t even an artist now.
You write dried up, worn out, reused metaphors to
Try and cover the regurgitated plots in your shitty prose:
He loved me and I left him,
I adored her and it was never enough.
Your fake epousing of wisdom isn’t worth the
Plane ticket you bought to another country,
Trying to douse the North American off of you like a cheap perfume.
Buying a different accent, a stranger lifestyle,
A few voyeuristic stories to tell through loose lips to tight friends.
You are a fucking fraud and it seeps from your skin
It pulls one side of your smile down like
Rotting wallpaper drops to old wooden floors.
Your mind is evil, your thoughts are despicable –
There is something growing toxic within you
Eating you alive from the inside out.
Vileness, treachery and a cunning
Set of linguistics round you out but
You are not worth the
Time or effort, and soon
He will have had enough.
3AM Thoughts // AKA “My Intrusiveness Bleeds Elusiveness.”