I hear they make greeting cards now to thank your therapist… for NOTHING
I’m a buried kind of beautiful.Bring a shovel and a shooting starI may be a night’s work.
I amBroken single motherDisconnected loverSlow motion dresserDark secret confessorWhite flag trendProfessional dead end
Daddy is jive talkingand showering the stripperMommy is sleepwalkingwhile changing baby’s diaper
He comes.And he comesloadedwith noise pollution.If I ever prayed for anything,it was for a manto shut up.
I get happy and I get sad,just like anybody elsebut they call this a disorder.
Waking up breaks my heart.Getting dressed breaks my arms.Joining the crowd breaks my legs.Letting someone in…does me in.
Maybe tranquility is the dirt under my nails. I know it’s there but I never feel like digging it out.
My pillow is as good as any oceanto drown in the nightmare of myself.I swam all the way here from the moon.
We’re in the business of melancholiaand we are married to our work.
love meget lost in mebut bewareside effects includea lot of shivering, babya lot of drinking, maybea lot of sinking, baby
Smiles are a funny thingand laughter is hilarious.I smile sometimeswhen I am delirious.
I want to sleep in the ovenbecause I just burn in the bed.
Oh, precious losing streak,you’re too cute for your own good. I try to laugh about itbut my face is made of wood.
I won’t sleepif that’s what it takesto not wake upas myself
I can’t get his bonesto go down the fucking drain.I try to stuff the tiny holes,too tiny for this pain.I can’t get his bonesto break any way for my gain.Break them back a little too far,never too far for the sake of sane.