pooches & pussies

What's the point of making movies, telling stories, especially since they've all been told before. What's the point of flying creative bubbles and balloons when i have friends who deal in actual real information that helps progress our society. We need artists to keep the insane sane, they say. But I don't see any geniuses sane. This is garbage. Stop reading now. Just STOP. 

You wanna hear my ghost stories painted like tulips twisting like thorns. You wanna read my pain so you can feel some of your own. You want to read my joy so you can understand and categorize. But I feel inside out when sentiments overlap and I'm left wanting to fuck and kill them all. 

Everyone is so anxiously waiting for me to overcome it all, that I too find myself pacing back stage, tapping my time. Then all too soon, I remember I'm running the hands and since I can't move them fast enough I cram my throat with smoke and do my darnedest. 

Drawing up pussies and video chatting are good distractions. Shelves and makeovers and broken lights and paint jobs are too. How many rugs do you think are online? I must have seen over three-thousand and I know I haven't even breached the surface. What a fucking snore. 

Oh, but I'm in love now - I could write about that. I could write about how it contrasts my past relationships and how far superior it is. I could tell you that the last suitors came in forms of cowards and liars but this one comes front and center and declares himself and his confessions with his chest barreled, waiting to be kissed and scratched. I could share with you our indiscretions in confidence and watch your mouth drop agape in repulsion and curiosity.  All his friends wonder how we do it and gag and still want exactly our romance. We are two dogs in a sea of pooches and pussies.