At first, it's just an annoying weight in your shoes, slowing you down, and making you tired.
This illness is not actually an illness.
If you could just see as well as I can pretend.
If I can still remember, how could you forget?
Old Frerard. Purely for comedic purpose. Kind of.
Shorts of Frank Iero being a strange little fuck. (Ooo an update. 2014, fuckers)
"So, you got a name?" He muttered into our shared pillow, fingers tapping against my back lightly. "Frank." He smirked. "Just Frank?" (Frerard, obviously.)
We are an island of misfit toys.
You're not going to feel any faint bit of okay when your intestines are wrapped around your skinny little throat.
Extremely Triggering. You've been warned. Please don't read if you'll get upset. I don't want anyone getting hurt.
I fuck up nursery rhymes. Basically.
Fuck me, I need to quit. OH yeah, this is poetry. Forgot to say that.
Things will change.
You're not the main attraction, just an over-enthusiastic reaction on my part.
You gave up when you failed to fly.
Stop the pain, stop my breathing.
Untitled, now titled.
You read it right.
No one will ever be like they were before.
Some voices are louder than others. (I wrote this at like 3am. I'm not sure what it's all about. But, it scared me. So, here.)