&&&

Once, someone called me poetic.

My first thought was “How am I fucking poetic?”

I mean, seriously. All I am is a stupid, big, fucked up jock. Who kills people for a living. By ramming blades into his enemies bodies and ripping their entrails out. There is absolutely nothing poetic about me. Or artistic. I am the epitome of failure.

... Which could be poetic, I guess. I’ll have to ask Ran what he meant.

I mean, Ran. Yeah. Ran. He called me poetic.

How the hell did he manage that thought?

Seriously.

Of all the people... Ran.

The guy who insults me.

The one person who makes me feel all girly inside.

I suppose I should be thankful. Poetic. It has such a ... artful ring to it.

No, really. Ran said it. Ran complimented me.

Poetic.

... How about stupid, brash, ugly, fool-hardy, and worthless?

I like that better than poetic.

How about... masochistic?

Can that be a form of art?

A masochistic poet. A poetic masochist.

Still, it makes no sense.

Poetic, poetic...

Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?

I despise that play.

Poetic.

Ugly.

Brash.

Stupid.

Worthless.

... Kissed. Made to be loved. Lied to.

Ken.

Poetic.

&&&

I feed off of repetition and the horrible noise it makes.