I know, it's bad. It's really bad. Keep in mind, it's completely reflective of my mood at the time I wrote it. Certainly not the first in a new pattern; hopefully, the last of its kind. However, I find it interesting...which is really the only reason I'm posting it.


Symphony of a catastrophy,

it's an overrated beauty.

And I'm modest, really,

when you think about it—

my friend is a martyr, I am his slave.

We draw things on each other's backs.

There are no mirrors.

It's like, I'm the devil, and he's a fucking angel

A martyr's martyr.

He has no cause!

We're both ashamed of our own presence.

Life is a catastrophe,

it's an overrated beauty.

He says we should discover things not meant to be,

We should dine together on enthusiasm,

He saves his last cash for me.

Dancing is his opera, fate designs the halls

he twirls through

on his way to a crowded victory.

And I know I'm not to bow to him.

It's not my place.

He bows to me.

I soak up all his energy,

feeling pity and glee.

I think about him like an interesting novel.

Who is he to me?

I can fit around his body,

no yin-yang here, but redundancy:

We don't need anymore angels, and devils have always been free.

But humanity is overpriced.

And life is void of beauty.