he called it pop art. "everyone has their blue phase", he says. He says, "you're nearing the borders of something art is not, maybe you as art but without 'as artist'. Maybe sweetheart will understand?"
I look at the ground, the green grass looks gray reflectin the sky sprawled across adjacent directions never ending. "I do not understand what you're saying to me. It's just color and it means nothing because all the best art is black and white", I say.
I treaded past landlocked laden pulled cover up, solemn white maiden..., past michigan to montana, to nebraska, to alabama.. i bled novels out between my legs, out anywhere that gives the correct tone of my dramatic effect. All I see is green grass plots with headstones, no more hardwood floors in white painted bedrooms. I says, "the day I have no more reasons to kill myself, people will have all the reason they need to kill me". And I'm sure it will happen at some point. Look...Just looook how everyone already hates the cracks in my face just by looking at me. was that statement meant to be self-indulgent? I dont know...hopefully...probably. "I'm glad hardly anyone understands me, give purpose to something", he says.