the stars.

they look dim tonight.
and I spit on Van Gogh for his false hopes.
as they gasp for breath. I blink.
and hope that they'll revive.
I drink. and toast to lost hopes.
and remorse.

my tears are caught in my eyes.
and the sky is growing blured with the passing minutes.
playing connect the dots with my cigarette
and my fingers begin to ache.



I hate these words I speak with ink
and metaphor.

but I love the way they sound
when my tongues goes dry- and my lips crack.
voice quivers. and I get lost in
tribulation.

translation: I feel cheated.


and the stars scream to me- 'I will let you down'
lines that I've fed to myself. and I've never failed.
at least I cared.

to begin with.




this is no more art than the stars.
and they're as dead.
as these words.

only I'll burn out long before
anyone can call me beautiful.