Club 27 Has Reached Capacity - F. T. Willz

.picking at old scabs.

.picking at old scabs.

give me the means to scratch this itch, this goddamned coarse-skinned harrowing itch

it burns and crawls and rears its head at the worst times possible, waving phantom arms in a plea for attention feeble and weak oh

the itch for an outlet, a cause, a course, anything to give ice cold shocking relief

there’s no ends to the means and there’s no means to achieve an end, so where does that leave us?

empty and cold, like the sea, with the same amount of unknown horrors lurking beneath

the problem is the solution, as it shows itself and slowly grows into an awful weed of thought

leave it alone lonely alone leave it alone

just leave it alone