to my pencil

fuck,
i need you so much now, man
you and my old notebook
nobody ever liked or loved me for real
and i can't blame nobody for such things
even you, my friend, with your carbone coldness and tight body
how could you love me or anyone? you're not love-made, man
i'm so fucking sad
and really don't have a clue why i'm typing this out loud
without down metaphores or suicide crises.
i'm feeling like the stinkiest crap on the bucket
of shit
even the flies avoiding and stayin away
but you use to stay with the shit smell
because you don't give a carbon fuck,
my pencil friend.
and this is for you.