There is nothing wrong with me,
there is a lot wrong with me.
I have no conscience, or do I?
This must stay honest,
without deviations from what flows in the back of my head.
As much as the demons inside would allow it. Why don’t they allow it?
They’re just there, lurking, waiting for any opportunity to strike at the sight of hope.
They feed on hope, on joy, on peace of mind.
I want to extract them,
operating on my own self,
cutting away pieces of brain
giving myself relief.
Does this sound too sick?
The ramblings of an unstable mind
Does it scare you? It scares most of us.
The thoughts that suddenly come
and we somehow go on
living despite them.
Should I go on about all the wrongs
in society, in the way we live and coexist?
Will that scratch that itch
each of us has insofar as
our superego allows it?
Fuck that. That’s overrated now.
At every turn you have someone
pointing out the flaws
feeding our individualistic illusion
we live outside the norm,
we don’t conform
like many others do;
we’re so fucking unique,
each and every fucking one of us.
Will I suddenly say “the truth is we’re not”?
No, we kind of are.
There is no argument,
just an observation,
with a dash of cynicism.
I wonder what makes us cynical
when we get old.
Is it just being fed up of all the bullshit,
but to the extent that we’re tired of ignoring