The day rotation in intersteler bome shell called the world

i am a poet traped in the cerculer exestance of dead end corpret amarica wondering the wrong side of nusesaty and desier bleed censtalashens insted of sleeping at night crying the galicses insid of me in to the pages of an 8by10 loosleaf notbook over flowing with ideas and the darken pages so paked with words that only god knows it's contents. I am millons of mobile exploding suns all cerculating arond a center point my sole stuck in 6by5 rooms full of cookie cuter poeple all move to the grater end gears in the Michener and that's how this cookie cutter life works money don't grow on trees and this life at free working exation to the edge and push off yor free time another day cuz you are to bizzy to tell the world your dieing insid screming my insides out into dark littl letter staning the walls of my life with mening bringing my intersteller insides to a lul for meair nano secends then traped in the mondain rotation of coming home at night to my real life try to live in 16 hour shifts cuting myself to reles the pint up words casing
rose spot to cover the page the lift over rimnents of with skin meet blad falling netly in a patter like sand falling in diffrent places and forming buity it flows from my brain and down my arm and on to the page like an orcastra in mothiom ever dot has it's place and it all moves in perfect harmany weaving emotions I have into execteceNo amont of ravalarion no amont of blood will replenish what I am doing now No self help books no help line no suasid watch no deth These roise spot covering my page form word of revalation song of devastation love ever lasting the missing peace to a two peace pizzle cuz if you clows enuf even black can carriy red so let it drip and be proud to show your stans to some who needs it