on bastardizing poetry and other honest things.

So here’s my two cents on being  
A little more honest,
And maybe a little less reckless(?)
But god I know all too well
The familiar bleeding as
I chew off my lips
In an attempt to smother the incessant noise
Crackling behind my larynx.
I guess it’s easier to fold down my sleeves
Instead of bed sheets,
But fuck,  I don’t know why
I’m trying to convince my shadow
That I’m worth following.
But like rain
It washes away the dirt from my lungs
And replaces the air with
One part cigarette smoke two parts instant coffee
Shit, I never thought
I’d have the symptoms of a depressive
Amalgamated into clichés
Shoving them under the floor boards
And ripping open the ceiling
To breathe, or at least fake it.
But shit
This is supposed to be honest
And I guess the only honest thing about me
Is my ability to stem blood flow
Bastardize poetry
And hide away like a fucking coward.