everybody knows, yet ain't no one talking.
talks is cheap, accomplishing very little.
so no one wastes time with talk;
just satisfied blowing it all out their noses;
succeeding beyond wildest imaginations.
have found screaming sometimes helps,
at times such as this.
don't hold back. let it all go:
thought I was something, but
she showed me I wasn't much of anything.
at least not all the much to make a big fuss over;
nothing to get overly excited over.
yah, it hurt, finding out
I wasn't much more than
a poop sandwich on toast.
reality is a bitch, and should be illegal.
once we learn this, we can then
get on with getting it on;
forgetting we ain't much more
than poop on toast.
we live in our own consequence
of our own making.
also in our own shadows
and death makes all come to terms.
I've become nonchalant,
for no particular reason known,
other than it felt of darn good
and side effects are wonderful.
wake up, now, on top of bed
and under with all those dust bunnies.
but dread is dread, and
should not be mistaken for
dust bunnies under the bed.
on a level only seen in oblivion;
a reckless sort of knowing.
pretentious old souls
sharing nothing of their descent.
their dying words lost
in a dark and ugly shadow wind.