GARBAGE By Any Other Name

Have you ever fucking felt like garbage, and hoped to die, while dressed to kill? Draped in blankets made of harlots, never felt so alive, or quite so ill. Connecting the dots on veins I've punctured, cross my heart, I plan to burn. Injecting evil, a mainline hot shot, sell my soul to make what I earn.

I wonder if my heart could be more hollow, but then again does this bitch even care?  I call it coping, but she says I wallow, if there's a difference then I'm unaware. And if you noticed that the rhyming takes a drastic scheme change, congratulations, you can go and fuck yourself. The very thought of her makes my front lobe act strange, and I've been planning on cutting that fucker out by myself.

Besides
Being force fed a rhyme in Shakespeare`s iambic time, is so colloquial and dreadfully droll. it never comes on its own, and what attention I've loaned, oh who the fuck am I kidding,I don't care.

Beer bottles full of jet fuel, necks clogged with an oily fuse, French kissed by flames and let loose, the best cure for this infernal blues.

Roses are flowers, Violets are usually snobby prude bitches, why do we tie ribbons around dozens of plant corpses and give them to each other to express our affection?...

That's not a rhetorical question.