I've set my own fire
and I'm gona burn this city

It's 4 am and there ain't no coon in my can

I've set my own fire on you
singed saint, of my own conception
now your ashes float away
as they once consumed me
entering my nostrils, filling my eyelids endlessly
cholking me, preventing my tongue from speaking
what I so needed to say

Now, it is said, spoken, believed, welcomed
with the effortless motion of a whisper
you are gone, leaving only the taste of disdain and regret
Regret I did not burn you sooner
so be gone now

A letter written but never sent
may only be recieved by someone fictitious.
After a thousand reactions, a thousand envelopes
only then may the true intention be reached
as to why the letter
was thrust so abruptly
into fictitious existance

The fictitious destination of a letter
is never reached merely for a fear of rejection
or the already present emotion
.. Imagine how the letter feels
to be wrought into rejected belief
or rather
rejected non-existance

Now, there comes a point in the life of a fictitious letter, where it is chillin out in rejected existance, playing scrabble against and even furthermore fictitious opponent, that the author reaches a point where rejection is now fictitious, and the intended reciever of the letter really does not deserve any unsent letters. (which is of course the point of never sending the letter in the first place) A calm knowledge that the letter would wield, not only that it will not be sent, but the mere point of it becomes, well, pointless. Becoming a rejected, non-existant, futile waste of trees.

A highly suicidal endangered species

Yet, the remains are kept, keeping constant reminder that nothing is permanent.
Not accpetance, belief or purpose.