bdf

it's loneliness. it's a bad idea.
it's the band with your name around your wrist.
it's tasteless. it's a weak facade.
it's the thin line between hopeless and lost.
it's backwards. it's a transparent stare.
it's the writing in the pages you never saw.
it's cancer. it's a form of love.
it's the cigarette that's still stuck in your mouth.

it's nearly three in the morning and i am awake. thinking. thinking is probably the worst thing you could possibly do at this time of the night, but it seems to be inevitable given that one is alone. it's life. it's the temporary depression that ensues shortly after the thought process begins and waking up like nothing happened that i am thinking is half remarkable. i mean, i would not want to wake up feeling like i am right now, but at the same time i find it fairly incredible that i don't. i hardly remember feeling terrible the morning after a late night of deep thought. i guess writing bad poetry helps get rid of some of it though anyways.