Portrait de l’artiste sans barbe

bleh
blah
err
ehh
ha
he
ho
hum

new morning new start.
I hate the cold and nights like last.
perhaps I can't do it on my own;
just another funeral and
just another girl left in tears.
taking revenge out on all the wrong people.
numb on the inside to all disheartening emotions;
everything you think,
burns down
everything you say.
it no longer entices me
through it's allure and
animalistic lust.
This is the high end of low:
In each relationship it's not about
love,
killing others in small amounts.
The ones that make you
come unglued.
It was never about
her,
it about the
hurt.
Such words only fall
upon van Gogh's ear,
to the point and now
I'm gone.
Fleeing another manufactured lifestyle.