The Death Of a Memory.

I’ll lay around and read these books
cry every time I think of you;

Cut my wrists every time you kiss. . . Him.

I wish I didn’t love you.
I wish you knew me.
I wish you knew my name.
I wish I didn’t write songs. . . about
                                                           

                                                             You.

Why can’t I write about politics?

The president, and the government.
Or how all these parents try to raise their kids good,
but there is so much SHIT in this world.

Or how there is so much blood from all these wars.
How we all hate each other
and how
              Love

                       no longer exists.

See, It’s like the government doesn’t try to solve problems,
they just cover it up with all this war
and all this bloodshed.
The president always wants more,
he always wants war.
Somehow, we’ve got money for war
even though we can’t afford,
to feed the poor.

Well I’m sick of writing about a Girl,
and I’m sick of writing about love;
I’m sick of writing about something that doesn’t exist.

It’s time to write about Hate.
It’s time to write about war,
and bloodshed
and all this un-nessesary bullshit.

It’s time to write about sex,
and drugs.
It’s time to write about suicide,
and depression, it’s time to write about death.

and write, I will.