Apathy,
it is a beautiful thing,
prevents any cares.
Any worries.
Prevents us from feeling a thing.
Day in.
Day out.
Drama and angst dilute out.
Their acid,
now no more caustic than water.

A toast to apathy's sweet embrace.
A wince to the wines bitter aftertaste.
Give me some sugar with my ***.
I can get drunk and forget
that acid on my tongue.

A toast to apathy's sweet embrace.
To her sugared veins,
to her sweeter lips.
To her wonderful poison,
numbing out:
pain
shame
and guilt trips.

Give me some sugar with my wine.
I want to forget.
I want to hide.
Just cling to that bony chest,
and pretend everything is fine.
...
...
...
But it’s not.
I just don’t care whether,
It is.
Or isn’t,
anymore.