Arms outstretched in the desperate hope of fulfilling dreams that had dissipated, longing for when life was simpler devoid of political persuasion, social media meanderings and opinionated pigs snorting in their own shit hiding behind the keyboard shooting out grammatical inaccuracies chock full of hateful smiling emojis. Festering open sores, drool pouring from the cocked head unbalanced and teetering onto the well-worn Chuck Taylor's black Converse. Perceived as Mr.Horrible by those with well-polished Corinthian leather briefcases, sipping their overpriced double lattes on their way to the high tower monstrosity looming over any non-descript city. The cupidity clowns dance with their powderpuff poodles for power. I am a Ticking Time Bomb begging for a fraction of a life lived by a well-groomed A. I robotic pencil-pushing old boy of the round coke-filled table.
Generation Irrelevant as seen by the one-percenters chomping on a King of Denmark fat stogie and blowing smoke up the ass of underprivileged and discarded people left to wallow in food inequality and desperation. I am the shit stain on the bottom of their designer shoe. I Feel Nutin’ I am Numb, I am Forgotten, I am dirty and sick. I am the turkey vulture at the side of the road ready to pounce on your cast-offs. The large foot of inequality forces my head down into the cold pissed stained cement while unrelenting forces cause pressure sores to ooze and weep like the tears that no longer flow. I am an emotional trainwreck riding the third rail straight to the fiery pits of constant pitchfork-stabbing pain. I am screaming in silence. Hear my voice through the wind as the hush cuts through the light pollution over the smog-filled cement crematorium.
Help. Listen to my death rattle. Listen to The Oxys.
Score 9.666/ Oxy Pills out of a bottle of ten.
