Being friends with a group of girls is bailed to fall apart
I don’t wish upon it, but God does it always have to happen ever so perfectly the way I’ve imagine it
I’ll see the pattern I’ll cross out one by one which one will fall behind
she’s too lame, she’ll die first
she’s not pretty enough and she doesnt know that, she’ll die second
she’s way too focused on herself, she’ll die third
now I love people that I hate
now I mourn the death I planned
yet keeps the bits and pieces of glass that digs deep into my skin and call them my girls.
my girls
I don’t like calling my art poems though much might say so, I never think that my silly little writings are ever good enough to be called “art” I always thought that, that would make actual poets felt invalidated. But if art is whatever the artist thinks is, then I’d like to think that this is art.
nana's corner 