Ultimately, it’s pointless to believe anything, or change anyone, at most you can help them discover themselves, or the sort of pussy they like to eat, but in the end that’s who they were, the way they were built, we dance and we rebel, a sad reflection of my younger self, but in the end it was just blood, it flowed through my veins, spirits filled my cup, and it was who I was, our beliefs only last until we get we want, our desires satisfied, we nut and we leave, we did what we intended, it was all we needed, and there’s no point in holding on, lives like grass, death and transformations, changing with the seasons, as quickly as the phases of the moon, maybe it’s the Quetiapine, but my desires are dwindling, my mood stabilizing, what’s the point of poetry, without your anxiety, or your heartbeat, your vulnerability, opening up your heart to get stabbed again and again, pain is a wonderful thing, so is starvation and desperation, all sorts of hunger, being buried under a mountain, it seeks and it yearns, so much work, please, lord god, let my blood flow, let it find satisfaction in a poem, but alas, why write, when I don’t believe anything anymore…

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