The humidity has bullied my throat dry, but I wouldn't know what to say. A broken bottle in your hand and meth on your dinnerplate. But you were the one that let the blood out. Set free from it's prison but the feelings still stuck inside.
Passing off every opportunity as a fucking joke, every helping hand, just covered in distaste. Destroying the delicate, body of work. Self mutilation just for creativity.
Filling every hole, every gap with something superficial. Your mind will never wake up.
You may be high on your own pride right now, but soon enough you'll come spiraling down and break your skull on the fucking pavement. Your pretentious brain, the incriminating evidence showing how full of shit you really are.