We were born writers,
insane already when our mothers were aching
to sent us out in the world
relieve their personal catharsis.
Little did they knew
that this was the beginning of their pain.
Their suffering, starts from childbirth
and lasts till the moment they die.
Our girlfriends will make the same mistake
as our mothers;
falling in love
believing in the ***
in the future entwined
around us
and
some,
at least one will make
the statutory mistake of bearing our child
the trojan horse for the end.
We, are like parasites
we **** food, water, shelter
we nourish in beauty, warmth and care
and yet when we find open exposed skins
floating on blue, timid waters
we have nothing better to do.
words are our weapons,
our friends, our nemesis
our route to fame and
the very real lack of it.
We smash everything around us,
people ****** into day jobs around us
suffer
forget the daily bliss of life
if they share a conversation
forget more
if they dare share a kiss
a personal intimation.
Besides, we are depressed souls.
Repressed
sexually charged
impotent
and
ugly, repugnant
narcissists.
We sit in coffee shops
with our personal diaries
and create and destroy the future
of the tomorrow
that reads,
believes in us.
Every inch of caffeine
makes us **** out hate
and
spill out so much guts
that people who read us
squirm like acid burns.
We create hypes,
fool around with Nietzscheian ideas,
existential crap
but all we are doing
is creating a device
for shameful procrastination.
The world was not built around us
No world will
Whatever we think
we scoop up earthly dust
our jobs are but the
position of glorified
janitors.