Friday, August 19, 2011

We crave the melancholy.
It pays the bills,
or at least allows us to do the thing
that bolsters our egos.

We create madness,
because our views of the world are so narrow
that we think that beauty exists only in
chaos.

Our heads hung over toilets,
or rain pouring down our backs
and soaking our cigarettes--
those things are
ALL THAT THERE IS,
we scream at the haunting
nothingness.

"This...
is...
what...
it...
means...
to...
exist..."
we slowly chant in the backs of our heads
as we rip ourselves apart.

We.
We?
Or maybe I'm alone here.