My head cables are arranged all wrong and tangled like snakes,
life is an endless, mind-numbing succession of days that get fewer and fewer
interrupted regularly by sleep and heartache.
The last unicorn is dead.
Reading is a form of sleeping, a soothing void of thought
or a messy affair, sometimes plagued by nightmares.
Writing is a form of avid masturbation with an audience.
I hate everything. Or lack the strength to hate, and I am merely
sick of existence.
I scratch the surface of my cell and the walls
remain intact, as if they are made of water.
Yet my nails break,
and I get to keep them as proof.
I am off to recount facts and steer clear of sympathy,
while worms and sycophants
rule the world.