Of all the things I’ve lost in life,
I miss my mind the most--
Followed closely by my originality.
It was easy once,
But let me dive into another cliché.
Look at me I’m inventive and self deprecating,
That rhymes but makes no sense,
Unless I add something here about the moon or blood,
Or razor blades and sensuality,
But then that would be predictable
And there must be no religious metaphor,
Or social context.
A woman without time.
Make a million at the dollar pics
Named after light that goes dark sixty times a second,
Too fast for the human eye.
Yet another concept fascinating before we found it--
Not that I’m bitter or anything,
But I’ve got nothing worth writing and I really want to write.