Living a dead end life or working at a dead end job?
Vacuity engulfs meaning; a paradoxical conundrum laced with contemporary flavor.
My thoughts resemble an unintelligible cacophony. They are constant repetitions of futility; reminiscent of an adolescent and semantic fog.
Frustration is king. I guess that makes achievement his vassal.
Dear reflection: I would very much like for you to fuck off, especially when you are the one responsible for this diatrabic bullshit you daringly call poetry.
To love and hate the very thing that tastes like freedom; disdain and affection for creation, poiēsis.
Creation is next to godliness, godliness is next to insanity.
Insanity is the shadow casted by loneliness, and anger is a byproduct of being alone, even if my 'being alone' is a condition that lacks phenomenological correspondence.
No one dares to look straight at the face of God. I've seen his face.
He stares, bewildered, right back at me.
I bleed, he reciprocates.
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