F.T.Willz poems (prolly frank iero no one knows)

club 27 has reached its capacity (2.0)

(this is what i think this poem is called idk)

they told him when he stood at the doors, still clad in his torn up jeans and faded-to-all-fuck sneakers, curious to see if he applied, "club 27 has reached capacity, come back later, kid." he went back later, this time wearing his finest suit and his shiniest pair of formal shoes. he'd spent hours polishing those shoes, polishing them until they were bright enough to shame the cleanest cut gems. again, they told him, this time with a gentle shove back towards the world he so desperately hated. "club 27 ha reached capacity. come back later, kid." and he calmly stared them in their dilated, oscillating pupils, only to answer, "we all end up in the same place."

-F.T.WillZ-must-die (jul 15)