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Ink Stains
                                                 



I have two tabs open, forgot to eat, the studio has no lighting and it smells like cigarettes, but I don’t smoke

There's napkins piled by my library, but they’re not stained with semen, the desert is framed on my wall and my thoughts are written below

It's been cold way too long, I read the tales of madmen and junkies to feel comfortable, and at the same time having mild panic attacks

Sleep is only six hours long and I always wake up fully dressed, as seen with my own eyes from above

The Manhattan Bridge is abandoned, the Bowery looks lonesome, the paddy wagons are frozen, The Chrysler's forgotten, his brother is where people climb up to the roof, just to jump off

1st Ave is nothing but insane asylums and wealth, everywhere I go I'm surrounded by trust funds, who make it hard for me to go anywhere,

The East Village used to be Punks, now its cunts

I leave my stain everywhere I go, I am now the older generation

Every morning I'm by the East River, my heart is lost in Europe, and my writing is stuck in New York

My muse is an angel, and I am possessed

I am a drinker, and a romantic, I'm a spic, but also human, I cry because I'm sensitive

My hair is messy and my eyes are fire bombed, my breath is rotten and the paste is clay

My pockets have bled in Washington Square Park, my pants are now stained, and my screams remain silent.

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