One day it will all.
Catch up to me.

An onslaught of.

Bad habits.
Poor diet.
Self destruction.

I'll disappear.
In an instant.

A week.

All that's left.
Of.
What could have been.

Everything is discouraging.

Right now.

As I can't muster enough dopamine up.
To make me feel better.

Everything is ****.
Everything is pointless.

I can't feel happy.
With this poor diet I'm on.

As soon as I saw her.
I knew.
I couldn't look away.
And, that.
I should leave.

But, I went to her.
When she called.

I had too.

I can **** the confusion.
And paranoia.
With too many substances.
But, I can't turn it.
Off.

That's not.
Possible.

I can't scream through these.
Collapsing lungs.
And dying ambitions.

I can't muffle the constant barrage.
Of die.
Die, and in this glorious emptiness.
Forget.

Everything.
Existence extinguished in a low gurgle.

My last breath.

Release.

Sometimes it seems.
Like being arrested.
Is my life.

I love the fear and panic.
Of the next few moments.

Might decide your life.

Philosophers write pretty.
Words.
But, at a certain point.
Those words.
Write.
Their own truth.