Drowning in myself. It's fucking awful.
All I know is vomit and shit.
The more I stay here the harder it becomes
to know what I am.
People stomp around
so assured and secure
but I see fools
emulating parents,
idols from television,
something else.
They push
and drive
and shove
and fuck
towards…?
Show me an individual,
preferably 40 or older
and let me know if they're satisfied.
I assure you they're not.
The saying "That's life," doesn't cut it.
Is this life?
We all trudge along,
trying to be someone or something.
Fulfilling expectations
or duties.
For what?
For who?
Goddamn insects.
All of us.
The bum laying on the curb
is no better that the suit
headed to some desk.
Beside the line of time
there are no roles
no outfits;
nobody.
Who is it in the mirror?
It's who you imagine.
But imagination is make-believe.
The world is in your head.
A construct to protect you
from the truth:
the abyss,
NADA.
