It is better to release your feelings now,
onto pure white landscapes.
So the blood shot dreams of reality
spill onto the souls of dead intellectuals.
It is better than running away,
better than walking the sad, lonely streets
filled with the best and worst of intentions.
Bruised and battered,
soiled with cigarette burns,
and soaked with the foul smell of liquor
from years of being inebriated,
my weeping heart drools spit
while being cut open.
Yearning to live with moxie and
demanding to be real about who I am,
I let the red flow with conviction
in simple sentences onto my machine gun.
Knowing there would be fear and madness
coming out from the spilled ink
makes the dread of death or stopping
something that can never be.