My ink marks on everybook I touch, will be my one and only heritage; an act of deliberation of my empty thoughts that ought to be New York’s new one hit wonder, maybe it’ll give me a reason not to surrender, so that the elders won’t laugh at my naive, niche, non-likeable way in living life.

I’ve been trying to compress my feelings into art. Turn my nightmares to the things that brings joy that embrace, gaining something off of my depressive sessions… so, maybe I’ll have something to leave;

Or maybe I should stop suffocating myself with a tall glass of oxygen, ’cause sometimes I just don’t want to catch my breath, I’d rather catch a body with a bucket of sweat, swimming across the stupid mass shouting every slur imaginable to my bare face in the hollow space called my head.