pluto
This could be good
Pretty Dirt
I will tell you it's okay
When your heart beat picks up
With my arms wrapped around your waist
We are stuck in the parking lot of New York
We don't belong here
None of us
It's loud and the lights burn our eyes
We are quite people who only opened
Our souls to the night
New York is too loud for us
And we are in the parking lot of our life
And you ask "is this it"
And I answer "yeah"
Because this city is as filthy as the both of us
Our dirty hands can't touch clean things
We don't belong here
We don't
But if New York
As filthy as it is
Can be as beautiful as they say
Then why not us
Why can't we be pretty dirt?
We can be pretty dirt.
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That was bad, but then again most of my poems are bad. Its 5am in the morning and I should do what I usually do. Drink a whole lot of cough medicine and wait until I get drowsy but I just finished the rest of it yesterday.
I cut my hair yesterday. I'm actually bold and I ... like it. Of course the world holds its god awful opinions. But I like it. Like my heart aches with how much I like it and the world tells me not to. I want to close my eyes and pretend I don't hear the world, but I hear every single thing. The way it whisper to me sweet nothings about nothing that hurt for no apparent reason.
I am weak. And I will die.
When I fall asleep I will die and be reborn again tomorrow night.
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