Daydreaming nihilist. Code maniac with a coffee addiction. Music, movie buff. High functioning alcoholic.
As Ernest says 'There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed', there is nothing to drawing or being creative. It's just the blood seeping from our broken places that is the ink to an artists work
'Was an artist born or was she made?
When did they begin to take shape?'
She stopped cheating on herself
With the company of shallow men
She stopped disinfecting wounds
With Hendrick's and a roll of kush
So she fell into the icy abyss
You're just a movie. Monotonous drill
Two books on the side, a pen in her hair
Enough to warm up a bed of despair
© 2018 W h o I s I