God Dies at the End

This is not a poem.

This is a rant.

I will put on my rage face,

And paint the town red,

And "just go crazy, man"

With the company of myself

In the comfort of my own home

Because I can tear my shirt,

Or draw a knife

Or shout shakespear off a balcony

And I openly scream at the shadows

Who answer politely with silence

I can behave badly

And if I am my only witness

I can sleep at night

Without the peace and solitude that comes from iron bars

And padded cells

I can fight with myself and indulge in the guilty pleasures

That make me feel sullied and stupid

I can argue with a hundred dream girls

And when I sleep,

They are still there in my dreams

There is no loss or losing

I can spend three hundred dollars

Monthly on alcohol

If it saves me three thousand

Monthly on sanity

I can look in the mirror and see a hundred different faces

Each more honest to its emotion than the last

I can bite my tongue to spite my face and

Laugh that it was my reflection that drove me to do so,

You never know what that son of a ***** will say

When i am not looking

I dont spend the night on the town

Because I no longer need to surround myself with people.

I no longer need to go out to buy a hat

That suits me and makes me look interesting or meaningful

When I sit alone at the bar

I have no one to impress except myself

And myself already knows I am unimpressive.

There is no one to disappoint

And while this seems like a sad tale,

The truth is that it is the free-est I've ever felt.

In the sanctity of a space that is mine

Surrounded only by people I disagree with

My reflections

And shadows

And to be able to write this while wearing underpants.

Bukowski was right

God is dead

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