You are not like this.
It is what the world wants
you to be.
Are you angry?
Are you upset?
Do you extinguish your demons
with your cigarette breaks?
Do you hate everything?
Does the matter itself
brings you closer to the end?
Does the fire in your head
breaks your spirit little by
little every time you
think you've been fooled
all along?
Stand.
Don't take a step.
Let the train have its
way.
You are made for this,
flesh by flesh.
Your finish is grace.
Afraid?
Fear embodies you.
You don't know fear anymore.
You don't have to care.
The world does not care.
A recluse is better than
a narcissist in every way.
It's the world.
It's not this poem.
It's not what you think.
Every body is burning
and you are one of the few
with the thin skin
who feels it, expresses it,
molded by it.
Bukowski knows this
and he doesn't want me
to repeat it for him
but he's dead and I guess
I will be too.
It burns.