F is for Fucking, and this acrostic poem is wholly fucked. I've lost count of all the failed attempts at writing which I have wholly stuffed. I've got a knack for self deprecating humour illegitimizing my pain, I shift the focus elsewhere so I could never be blamed.
U is for Unfortunate, which is exactly what I am. Except I'm not. My life couldn't be easier if I was running it as a scam. You ever get the feeling you're living out of place, where the person behind the mask has completely eroded everything except the face? Where nothing is left except a smile painted on the outside of a hollow empty case? I guess that's where I'm unfortunately placed - an abandoned vessel living in a lovely space, unable to appreciate or feel anything but displaced.
N is for Nothing, which is exactly what I've got. Nothing going on, Nothing friends, Nothing until I rot. I suppose SPWrites might write 'Awesome...' a lot, he obviously sees a lot of good in the world through the eyes of his Instagram bot. But what of me just a lonely hopeless miserable guy, I don't see much anymore through all the tears that cover up my eyes. I suppose it all comes back to my first point again, whatever that was, my attention span is wearing thin.