If paper could talk back I wonder what it would say. I’d start by asking why it never answered me when tears dropped down on it falling from my face. Why it never told me how to tell I if this was love , or why it didn’t stop me when I blew her off for some drugs. If it knew I was lost, why didn’t you tell me where to go? That’s why I stopped talking to you for years and confided in smoke. I trusted lsd more than I trusted you then, cause you let me pick up bad habits and let me put down the pen. Now I wrap you around leaves and console myself when the moon is shining. I like to think when I ash you that now its not me, its you that’s crying. Now roles are switched, if you could talk you’d scream “I’m dying”. I’d laugh. Inhale and ash again for fucks sake…cause if paper could talk back it tell me i’ve gone insane.

How come Heroes can always save everyone but themselves? How come we can dedicate our time into righting someone’s misfortune but when our own lives crash no one reminds us to put on a seatbelt? Is this the life we made, or are we just slaves to a worldwide play until we run into the grave..what can you say.

Accidentally in love, but I regret it none.