Any less human.
I'm starting to get the itch to write again, so I decided to go and look up something I wrote in my last poetry phase. I found my favorite slam piece, and I think I might try to find the niche of poetry readings in this town, get my freestyle on and just see what occurs.
This is something I wrote after an abusive relationship, after getting screwed over by people I trusted, while stalking some semi-emo writer at the plaid pantry and spending way too much time at work. So, warning, it is dark, but it rolls in such a delightful way.
There is no sense in this
I'm giving it all up, man
You see,
I'm down on my luck.
I've got no money
and I'm too sick to make it to work...
but I do anyway.
Only makes me sicker.
And on top of it all,
I've got no love.
Love?
What an absurd thing,
what a disease,
what a mindfuck.
You see, the problem is
they've all got better women
or sometimes men
or belief in a fuckless society
or belief in a society
that
just
fucks
me...
all the while creating
a deeper void.
But it's okay
I'm just rolling with the punches
and when it's lights out
I'm seeing stars.
So you see, it's nto so bad.
I'll sleep it off until
the sun burns into my retinas,
pushing past my eyelids
just to bring me back into
chaos.
Every day I commute to work.
Every day I face risk
of an untimely death...
And I just wait for
the pile up,
or maybe,
the freak occurance...
code blue, mass casuality!
And if I'm not one of the ones
swallowed by the earth
they'll just put me to work
like everything is okay.
I watch people die
constantly
I feel the chill of the morgue
just down the hall
but I've just got to
shake it off.
And sometimes,
I wonder if it makes me
any less human...
and I wonder if
maybe that's okay.
I guess the problem is
people, they never stop dying
no matter what cures
we conjure up.
And they never stop hurting...
You see, there's no sound
like the sound
of a fresh widower.
But it's their own faults.
Because people, they never stop loving.
and that ache of lonliness
is the human condition
and the need is fierce.
But maybe, I can give it all up.
Zombie makes her commute
does her tricks
all for a buck
to go home and sleep it off.
Cause you see,
in my dreams, everything's okay.
There's you and me
and none of this bullshit.
All we've gotta do
is take care of ourselves.
So maybe,
it's not so bad.
The firey crashes,
the earthquakes,
the code blues,
the overdoses,
the cardiac arrest,
or the syphillis making holes
in your head.
Cause maybe then,
I could sleep forever...
just you, me
and the stars.
This is something I wrote after an abusive relationship, after getting screwed over by people I trusted, while stalking some semi-emo writer at the plaid pantry and spending way too much time at work. So, warning, it is dark, but it rolls in such a delightful way.
There is no sense in this
I'm giving it all up, man
You see,
I'm down on my luck.
I've got no money
and I'm too sick to make it to work...
but I do anyway.
Only makes me sicker.
And on top of it all,
I've got no love.
Love?
What an absurd thing,
what a disease,
what a mindfuck.
You see, the problem is
they've all got better women
or sometimes men
or belief in a fuckless society
or belief in a society
that
just
fucks
me...
all the while creating
a deeper void.
But it's okay
I'm just rolling with the punches
and when it's lights out
I'm seeing stars.
So you see, it's nto so bad.
I'll sleep it off until
the sun burns into my retinas,
pushing past my eyelids
just to bring me back into
chaos.
Every day I commute to work.
Every day I face risk
of an untimely death...
And I just wait for
the pile up,
or maybe,
the freak occurance...
code blue, mass casuality!
And if I'm not one of the ones
swallowed by the earth
they'll just put me to work
like everything is okay.
I watch people die
constantly
I feel the chill of the morgue
just down the hall
but I've just got to
shake it off.
And sometimes,
I wonder if it makes me
any less human...
and I wonder if
maybe that's okay.
I guess the problem is
people, they never stop dying
no matter what cures
we conjure up.
And they never stop hurting...
You see, there's no sound
like the sound
of a fresh widower.
But it's their own faults.
Because people, they never stop loving.
and that ache of lonliness
is the human condition
and the need is fierce.
But maybe, I can give it all up.
Zombie makes her commute
does her tricks
all for a buck
to go home and sleep it off.
Cause you see,
in my dreams, everything's okay.
There's you and me
and none of this bullshit.
All we've gotta do
is take care of ourselves.
So maybe,
it's not so bad.
The firey crashes,
the earthquakes,
the code blues,
the overdoses,
the cardiac arrest,
or the syphillis making holes
in your head.
Cause maybe then,
I could sleep forever...
just you, me
and the stars.