1/13
...
Poem:
Withering trees are more fruitful.
In their shock they produce seeds, to leave something before they die.
In the endless search for reason, esape in the wrong place,
I chase this beauty. In dark night allies, in self-sabotage, self hxxx.
Pain paints beautiful pictures. Yet, rarely leaves memories. I constantly needed to refresh, to remember, reharm.
If you get isolated enough, there's only it. Palettes move from grey to black. The pain fills that void.
Then, when someone tells you to stop, you start feeling insane. Because you are, you want, you love that pain.
Withering trees are more fruitful.
In their shock, they produce seeds
But I was only fruitful
With seeds that cannot grow.
This is too good man
parasocial, non-existent, lonely, confused
I never grew up to be faulty I was born this way ✨ God's plan for me is to die. I'm sick of all this fucking agony
The fact that stuff like this is not booming with popularity is all the evidence i need that audiotool is dead I think I'll be listening to this often
love this
unfinished...