Who would ever enjoy sadness? But sadness makes poetry. I don't enjoy bleeding. Though, if I bleed poetry I will take the risk. Because I enjoy poetry more than I enjoy happiness, because poetry is eternal when happiness is gone before I end this phrase. And everything is temporary, but poetry.
I am gone now, even though your words still make my mood ring turn in to the most awful rainbow. I hated blushing when you talked to me, but I loved the way my heart was about to explode at the same time. You were poetry when you talked, even now that your words are faded with my stoner memory. I have nothing else to say, there's nothing I can miss. But now I will miss feeling something, while I'm immersed in this dull nothingness.