Bloody hell I think I might be okay..
three poems published, ta da one about goldie locks, one about authority figures and one about carrying drugs over mountains and being fucked on a big wooden cross. Whats more I'm not homeless, not homeless Its making me me nausous, I behind in the studies but loving it, playing to my strengths not taking it too seriously that a bad grade makes me a worthless human being. Education will also be about other peoples ideas, there is nothing wrong with rejecting that sometimes. My hall is yellow with a purple carpet I have a poster of a new york taxi and green wall hanging thing, a mirror, a lampshade and suddenly I'm in heavan. Ditch the battle for compensation, ignore the travesties of power and injustice I have a veranda and a wee broon sofa for one that cost £35. My god the social worker is the embodiement of some anciet soul devouring demon. Seriously.. all though probably not in the literal baby eating sense. I hope. I do my best but it isn't long befo...