Contrary to popular belief:
I'm complicated.
What it is one time PAC DIV.
My mind is a blood red brick house on Stone street
with thousands of rooms; blue mirrors,
the auroma of marajuana and music.
Cacoethes Scribendi. Get it tattooed on my wrist.
New Orleans native. My accent proves it all.
I am finally beggining to accept the fact that I am meant to be alone.
I am forever in the cycle of change.
I tend to treat serious situations like how I treat strangers.
I'm a starving writer and a dying phtographer.
No one will ever comprehend or understand.
When I die I want Bob Marley playing at my gravesite.
I am the rose that grew from concrete.
This image speaks for itself.
Hey I'm not finna slit my wrists, but I do think this would look good on a shirt.
We are all alone, stuck in our prison. Our only solution ,
is to make beads of crimson. Upon our wrists with a flick of a knife. Then our lips our wrists they kissed, our final moments of life . People say I'm a disgrace. But to what they say to the human race? They tell me to go away. Now I just lay down and die .
Goodbye.
