Thursday, August 5, 2010

Fight Fire With Fire

I am the tortured artist at the center of my own shithole universe.

And I am angry.

I am the complaining child who's parents never hugged him enough.

And I am sad.

I am the good looking loser who can't get out of his own way.

And I am lonely.

I wear my heart on my sleeve and my sleeve in your face.

And I hate you all.


I could try to make you see your own stupidity.

I could try to make you pay.

I could leave you all alone.

And die in a gutter somewhere.


But I can't. Because I'm angry.

Because this rage inside is seething to get out.

Or in, when it has nowhere else to go.


These words are meaningless.

Swept up in the winds of time.

Spread thin across the land.

Until not even a worm could taste them.

And I am angry.


I pour myself into myself.

Because I was taught to shut up.

Don't complain.

Don't ask.

Don't want.

Because you won't get.


This lesson I drew from my childhood.

Breaks my heart.

That young spirit, that tiny flame,

Doused before it could burn anything.

You're welcome.


I'll be your good little boy.

I'll be your quiet little mouse.

I'll say thank you, and please.

I'll burn inside forever.


Hope is an illusion.

That I use to get through the day.

The end is far.

Too far.

Let me bring it closer.


Let me drown myself in booze.

Let me burn myself with weed.

Let me do what I should not do.

Just to get away.

Away.


Pass these words along.

May they save some other soul.

Because it's too late for me.

Adieu.

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