Author Information
Saturdalia
it's friday night, bathing in the pot i piss in,
when the sun hits, i don't shine or glisten,
my social life, wrapped up inside bodybags,
ugly, even the shit in my own potty gags,
don't know popularity, i have 5 numbers in my cell phone,
like what am i doing? sitting here tear ducts swell alone,
no social connections, even lost contact with the ghosts of days gone,
and all i seem to notice, how much my lifeline frays with each new dawn,
her name is death, the only girl i ever flirt with,
we eat together, the only girl i ever have desert with,
they tell me of god's beautiful creatures,
conning each other, playing musical leachers,
like it's time to move on, but with no where to go,
i did it to myself, i reap and now i sow,
it's midnight now, playing with gross bugs at the hot tub,
how it would go down: girls laughing like, 'he's got a stub!"
they're probably right anyhow,
but i tell them, 'it's not all about the money and penis baby,'
they snicker, am i possibly wrong? the chances are more than maybe,
i'm sick of thyself, showering in the depressed's argot,
i want to change, but about that i don't know a lot,
excuses i know, back to surfing the dead-ended CL,
find what could be a female, illiterate, and surely she can't spell,
to feel cool, to feel accepted, feelings that never feel over rated,
while i'm never at an equilibrium, always too anxious or over sedated
apparently i'm at that level and holding steadfast,
and a lively future: like a fantasy to my empty, dead past...
