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You Will Do Nothing With Your Lives
Dragged through the mud, lost a lot of blood,
but I will still kick and thrash against the fuckers
who get hard-ons at fucking with people’s heads.
Maybe I’m addicted to the feeling of being trodden on,
some trampling fetish I’ve yet to acknowledge.
Who knows. Who cares.
You know, none of you are actually real,
you all exist in my head only, filling the world,
making it feel a little less lonely but it isn’t working.
Look at you all. Completely fucking oblivious
to the terror that lurks around every corner.
You will do nothing with your lives,
all of you claiming you’re a good person.
What a crock of shit. The idea of goodness
is a mask that projects the best parts of you,
completely ignoring the creatures you really are,
the monsters you pretend you are not.
So keep writing your poetry, keep helping others,
continue on in the delusion that you’re different,
that I’m not describing you at all.
Keep believing you are someone else entirely,
someone dependable, someone caring, someone loving.
When I die, you all die with me.
You will do nothing of consequence, so my advice?
Give up. Sit back and allow extinction to overwhelm you.
Say hello to the dirty infinite darkness and just let go.
