Working On My Life

My God must have been out sick the day I was forced to kiss the
abyss. Morality suffers when eyes are wet and aching. "They're
f***ing tortured." ...She was talking about my eyes. So I took my
arm and muscle pumped my signature into the second step of my
stairs and tree carved my literature in the backyard and called it,
"working on my life." You laugh and ask me what does, "working on
your life even mean?"  I knew then my hearts were too
strong for you, too red and too blue. You lack empathy, and it's
disgusting. I am not perfect. Nor do I wish to be but I would never
ask someone to explain why they're not me.