not morning but a yellow gleam
encases my surroundings
developing the world
in a faded nostalgic glimmer.

last night i wandered around a club having ditched my friends
just for a bit. it was i needed some space to fill my lungs with
something like impropriety. i ran into a woman who said she loved
my style. she had heavy but well-done eyeliner on, black lipstick
and a serious spray of piercings or diamond studs lining the right side of her face. i gave her a nod and my best i'm-not-drugged
look. i noticed she had a platter so she must have been a server. i clicked my cigarette holder in my tongue and stumble off.

i walk on the other side
im pumping blood to a body that doesn't experience to a body that
cannot relish or feel. both liberating and damning it is.

slaughtered fruits, abandoned plastic, clothes like rags on the floor.
what filth is this
what time has come?
caught and corrupted and cornered.

will anyone read this and will anyone make sense of it?
the importance or the symbolism? the intimacy?
but a poem is just words.
and a cigarette is just smoke.

What's the point of living?
A bleak question, I know,
But it still holds merit.
For why must we hold dear
Something, that in the end
Is forever meaningless.

Generations go by, quicker than winks,
What are the odds of being remembered?
Subsequent years after death, it gets less
And less, until you are all but forgot.
What happens to history after that?

Absolutely nothing.
Life keeps marching forwards,
Leaving behind countless.
Oh, to be forgotten,
We will all become that soon.

i'm so misanthropic
i barely like myself
i hope that some day
we'll all be rotting in hell
and i know it's not fair
and i know it's not kind
but **** this ****
i just wanna die

Some day
It'll all be over
No more people
No more thoughts
No more feelings
Here's hoping
That it'll be soon

I'll drink to that

askew undoing the worthless match
over and over and over and over

A million children that could've been
A million children you've never seen
They're drying up in the towels
Rotting in the sewers
I've sprayed them on the walls
Wiped them on the curtains
They've gone down the willing throat
And in the public toilets they float
They are all racing
In the sewers
On the toilet seats
and the dripping walls
In a *****
On a lonely shore
They're racing  
Millions of them
Because they're programmed to race
To be THE one
To be first
To exist
And they're all dead
My million children that never were