Dear old friend,

The promise of love is as secure as if we know our own outcome while those who say they believe in a tenderness shallowly portray a rightfulness of their within. It is not, that. I spend a night with friends their words cheep and cheapen my own value if I had murdered a man while the love from those I hold dear explain the value of the value of my love. I’m burning inside. I drift. I continue down a similar road which a few pass over. The language of an explanation is brief and sudden as the explanation of such derives a bleak outcome of rotten behavior and a continuous conscientiousness of the lack therein. Your words. You said. Well fuck that. We all say much. Greatly while studying our adversary. No one lives. The love that’s lost. I hate the idea you’d be happy with the idea we are separated. You, have, no, idea. You lose. It’s madness. Like a golden blanket of a thought and you and I will become a friend and your life continues and the relativity between us connects just like a bus ticket and we just arrive. We do. Fuck that. The company of loved ones is a pile of uncertain substances as the lies spouted give proof of whiskey and lies and I say and and and while the tongue my tongue seems to loosely give way to cigarettes and contradictions of early morning conversations and comparisons of what was and what is while you dimly refuse to see my lit match within your dark world of lies and deceit. I believe love to be the answer. It isn’t you whom I’m speaking to. It’s the one, and that is it. I didn’t mean to write you all but what Who I meant to write to is looking in the mirror admiring themselves as a god as they close their register of lack and nothingness as the logs prove the nothingness of their exchange the withdrawal of anything, you coward. I shall not diminish who you are by what you do or who you are the mind you have are as significant as the mind you portray while dancing in between what you are. Shallow. Mindless. I can’t see the life of those who chose to say the end is near while you have no idea where the end is. As a blanket covering over your sins you ask for love. I adhere. I wish for, thus. Don’t, we, all. Your words are a loss like wine emptied from a bottle while you ponder these words as you find the words to reply and there are none. The love you professed is sickly and dying while you have an emptied bottle in your hands and the continued value of who you are is killed. It isn’t true as I stand beyond the realm of your existence as you vouch for a celerity not within your empty bottle.

Press forward to goodness. I implore you.


Blake Byers.


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