Illegible thoughts penned through blind fingers find an audience of one pathetic.
Lying upon a pointed side, drunk with sorrows' wine, I emit no care or ability to.
Last nights mascara’s tears run into a smeared lipstick frown, and upturned empty bottle.
Broken spirit lies awaiting the shadow of death to steal it's mind and soul.
But greater torture still, would be the endless nausea that plagues the cheapened recipient.
To blend within societies lesser fortunate would be lovely, alas I cannot cast my vote.
For I became diseased decades long ago when new was eye fetching.
Draped in natures gown of mud, spit and dead leaves I wallow to the tune of misery.
Only lifting my eyes to greet the wind that beckons me to see it.
Low, ground level views are poetic in my minds eye, watching the bugs work.
Hurry bugs, not much left of me today, but watch out for my tongue, for it knows you well.