<< : 2003-08-21 :: 8:39 p.m. : >>
The sickness of her mind

There's something generic about the way she writes.

It make me cringe with insult,

as though offened by her words.

Thoughtful thoughts spewed together,

as an owed to herself.

Slashing my wrist would cut deeper than her cheezy, unreal sentences, pubestic phrases, wrapped in silicone

Boxed LIKE cheap wine

Sadder than roadkill.

Foreign to the soul like a bleek chill.

She sickens sentiments and picks every word according to her own image of self preservation.

I feel empty, and masterbated to,

by a mind that has no richness, no depth, and lacks the spine to forget the prettiness for the sake of being pretty.

VAPID BITCH. Copyright@2003

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