i write a thousand blogs a day in my head
complete with editing and formatting and everything
when i sit down in front of the pc
a million things crowding in my head
crows circling the bloody carcass of my brain
and nothing comes to fruition but these pustulent maggots
the dead woman called it poetic prose
as she proceeded to rip it to shreds
slicing off and chewing pieces of my soul with it
those were the good old days
i miss hating them
just like i know i'll miss the good life at home
when i have a whiny brat to live with and cherish and nurture till death do us apart
such is life
a mucus filled pustule
as beautiful and transient as a just-burst bubble
exploding into psychedelic fragments of memory
such is life
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