I am writing a ten page paper on Tupac Shakur.

life ain't no garden, its a pile of rocks and ash

fuck this fucking house, 

the house has reached its peak(and it was so fucking minimal at best) 

and it needs to be over.

yea, taking it all for granted,

but fuck it

and i love people and friends

but this all has reached such a low

I feel like i'm just going crazy

is it my fault, or this goddamn house's ?

[edit..::.. anbbmo]

Hiding dirt under my fingers, 

girl,

a house is not a promise, or a trap

it is you, and it is your heart

and

the space you make can be fine

why we don't see the fires

but you

radiate; you breath again

Make shift mirrors, the dreams

sing,

make your mouth move some lies

forget the tunes and times

now true,

and again.

I skewered the snake with a mongoose-like pose, I felt so unreal in front of my friends.

So now, you're in the closet, and I'm on that hook-- a cattle production, nine divided by ten.

The grass in your wallet, the sand on your chest, a virgin-like memory.

I can't fade, or I can't be held.

Reactionary seeds, and words of stone and salt. Anchoring a ship away from its sails.

Living a mule, burning inside of the moss. Becoming a cousin to a foreign widow.

This is how we survive, this is the means we have to breath. 

We take turns in the oven, we make love to the mirrors. 

The society cranks and turns, and our eyes roll inside of our skulls.

People are bad, people are sad.