7:30am

It’s seven thirty What the hell is that supposed to mean? Another day has fallen away from the universe But the answer to the question remains: It means absolutely nothing to me My lovely nocturnal state of deadened fatigue Gravity, contemptuous, pulls my purple rimmed eyes down Though I don’t know why it envies insomnia Neither do I wish to Too many complexities for such a forlorn soul So much to say, but its all so cliché My whole life’s a fake, nothing means anything at all I’m a liar, I don’t believe in trust I am me; But somehow that’s wrong I’m psychiatrically deranged, bipolar The limitless flow of a manic depressive I can’t help but think: Damn these poetic mindsets; They’re nothing but trouble I turn up the music up a little louder Because I don’t wanna hear myself anymore I don’t wanna deal with these monsters There’s too much ugliness But the point that really makes me wanna scream Is that all that ugliness is so damn beautiful I don’t think I can take it These thoughts can’t be organized I’m a random, skeptic, kind of person Judge that if you can But its seven fucking thirty ... I want to smash the clock ::had to right a poem for english about my morning....::