An artificial life to quench my thirst for perfection.
No one is beautiful unless they are not made of flesh.
Is this poetry, my love? Where is the genius I was supposed to be?
The ink bleeds, thereĀ“s nothing left.
Hanging from the sky are the threads of a lost imagination.
Twisted desires, unshaped dreams gone to the trash.
Let my words fail to convey my heart, read them as they fall like shooting stars.
Art? DonĀ“t make me laugh.
This is just unregulated emotion.
Raw, pure, banal, nothing, nothing at all.
