i am no master musician

          yet i hear my own catastrophe glistening at every song i chose
not to sing
because i know i have vision, i made an incision in my eye socket
and confirmed it

i envision a decision ill have to make one day
     where i have my life in one hand and my heart in the other
one promises only luxury and a metaphorical prison
               and the other is like a lesion that hurts and hurts
but every time i scratch it
i shoots Ecstasy where im burnt, into the blood in my spit

and when i spit it out it turns around and tells me that it was worth it

that life is never perfect only worth it or not worth it
there is no purpose but to make your life absurd and horrid

         so you can make it out alive, and have that ten seconds of bliss
before the next drop
and hope the next stop is the next peak
maybe next week
or the next day
or the next hour
or the next second

i beckon it, and even if it doesnt come
to some that means its worthless
but i find that perfect
gives me something to work towards and not sit and be melodramatic

                               i want to live phenomenally
i want the music in my ears
the talent in my peers
and intelligence enough to not have to talk to chirping crickets
even when my friends are in front of me
            
i think i've found that here
it's quite comfy