I Am A Poem. There Is No

The Empty, The Angry, The Lonely, The Tricked, We Are All Museums Of Fear.

I Stopped Looking For A Dream Girl, I Just Wanted One That Wasn't A Nightmare.

I Remember Awakening One Morning And Finding Everything Smeared With The Color Of Forgotten Love.

And Even The Trees We Walked Under Seemed Less Than Trees And More Like Everything Else.

It’s So Easy To Be Easy—if You Let It.