Love is a serial killer

This book is a midnight on a Tuesday without sleep, a suicidal Wednesday writing a few words to try to calm myself down, or a Saturday, drunk, as I drop a camouflaged tear on paper. I don't know of a better way to quiet my insomnia, than to fuck my demons with a pair of suicidal poems as I listen to some jazz. I'm writing this in the dark, at 3:10 in the morning as I listen to Blue in Green by Miles Davis. Nothing like a saxophone to accompany my words. It's curious but bleeding out on paper is one of those things that makes me feel more alive than ever.
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