bleeding our souls.
philosophy after failing,
eating my spirit.
no grey skin win,
no howling lip.
give me cancer and confusion,
make me fall in love with a dancer
before death sleeps on a futon.
like a drunk raccoon with a question,
gently resurfacing from the depths to ask
knock, knock?
this is how the end begins,
says the internet.
earn information,
awww snap!
she is a very good man,
and I am the son of doubt.