some days
I am selfish pretentious musings
tinged with dark empty screams
I tell myself that I write to heal my wounds
yet all I do is find buckets of fresher pain
bad memories should live in tombs
secured with silver chains
and warning signs
not flaunting themselves like painted whores
in wild moonlight
yet still I drag the ink across the page
to hearts that will not buy
or even taste
but some words I trade for magic beans
to unravelling souls caught in my wake
but like small prayers they are never heard
they just resonate in silence
yet still this sad and purposeless writer writes
about dreams
and better days
