The wind probably knows it.
Probably because,
it’s the only thing that knows it
but if you think about it,
it makes sense in a way
where you can understand
why writers write and
******* always win.
(Charles Bukowski’s an exception)

Oh how you wish that
when you feel it the most,
the more it would show
and that you’d actually
show it
but you’re a pro when it
comes in hiding what
royal rumble of rats
are inside like it’s
an automatic reaction
from the nervous system
and you (I) don’t know about (you)
anyone here but,
it really ***** when
you think about it,
everyone’s having the
time of their lives.

Destiny exists but,
only as you’ve always predicted
it, like how you got hooked
by one of Morrissey’s
hit which is ‘Everyday is like Sunday,’
Destiny commands:
every single day of your life
to be like Sunday and you
can’t help it
and o!
Plus the fact that everyone’s
too focused in stardom
to know what is it
with Sundays and why
it is supposed to be sad
so you’re
in for like how Ozzy Man
puts it, “Destination ******!”

******* references...
since when did knowing
such things makes one hipster?

(Since every single *******
pedantic-narcissists including the closeted ones
got the idea when it trended of course; I know,
I am aware of the absurdity)