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An ode to Nietzsche's Zarathustra (or something completely different)
On a day so cold and dreary
My heart weeps, sinks and grows weary
A heaviness as sentiments of despair lay upon my very soul
Burrowing and piercing through my heart
I question myself where of comes this melancholic sound
The hollow answers of emptiness and loneliness is all that can be found
I recapture my thought process losing my temper at my own frailty
As words of my macho education surge and flow through my blood
While my heart aches to be heard I convince myself that « Poetry is the uttering of overemotional baggage by senile old men »
Condeming myself for my helpless pondering « Fuck Poetry ! Poetry is dead. »
Though my soul might be scarred to its core
I sweep all the sadness away under a loud bravoure of manly oneliners
So, « let’s fuck some bitches and score some coke »
Since I rather have the screaming agony of a wounded soul drowned out by drugs and « ho’s »
