It's the end of the world as we know it

Are you ready to hear what the codeine has to say?

Because of course I took a little more than I should have. I mean, fuck it all, I’m a fucking burnout, AREN’T I? That seems to be the general consensus amongst everyone that knows me.

But whatever. It’s fine. Everything is just fine. 

I smoked myself into pneumonia.

Maybe if I’m lucky I can drink myself to death by the weekend.

I thought I was ready for normal life, real life, real, normal, sober life. But I’m not. And I probably never will be. Something fucked me up when I was a child and this is what’s left.

I can’t fucking talk to anyone because I don’t want to annoy them.

I can’t trust anyone because a lot of bitches taught me that trust isn’t something that exists anymore. And therefore, no one ought to trust me either.

I’m done.

I hate myself.

I’m done.

I hate myself.

I’m done.

I hate myself.

I’m done.

I hate myself.

I’m done.

I’m done.

I’m done.

I’M DONE.

It’s been a long time, since I found myself on the floor,

screaming into the universe,

challenging it and begging it to kill me.

It’s been a long time, since I was so alone in this house.

It’s been a long time, since I actually cried without a song or a book or a text or a movie or anything to prompt it.

It’s been a long time since I was so very miserable.

And once it’s done,

I hope it won’t come back for a very long time.

I hate knowing myself so well,

as to be able to tell why I’m miserable,

and know, absolutely and completely,

that there is nothing to be done to fix it, other than just 

riding

out

the

storm.

Goddammit.

I could use some Bukowski and Bourbon right now.

I will never be able to fly away with you on that day when you find your wings. I will never be able to sing with you that day when you find your voice. I will never be able to see the world from way up there. I will never be able to follow you.

I will never be able to hold you here in my hands forever.

Because I am a man of the Earth,

and birds belong to the Sky, and the Sky alone.

And I will nourish you back to health,

and I will love you all my life,

and I will love you all my life,

and when you fly away, I will remain.

And I will do what I as a man of the Earth must do. 

I will tend the land, and grow what I can. 

And another bird will come and go.

And I will remain.

And another bird will come and go.

And I will remain.

And I will see their joy, the love of flying they have,

and I will know that I will never feel those things they feel.

I could never be that free, that happy.

And I will watch them fly,

and I will remain,

and wait for the next little bird to come and break my heart.

NIGGAS, UPDATE.

I SPENT 25 DOLLARS ON SHROOMS INSTEAD.

I HAVE TO BE UP IN 4 HOURS. 

I DO NOT EVEN CARE.

WORTH IT.

SO.

FUCKING.

WORTH IT.

My little bird, sing for me. It’s late, and my life is ending with every moment of time that passes. Sing me to sleep, and let me rest. I promise, I’ll be better in the morning. I promise, I’ll be happy then.

My little bird, please tell me sweet things, to quiet the fears of pain and hell. There is so much beauty in your voice, and I hang on every word. When I wake, I’ll be ready then, to devote myself to you if that’s what you desire. I promise, I’ll be ready then.

My little bird, so much is happening in this world. So much terror and misery. But we don’t have to let it control us. It must not ruin us. Because we were forged in the heart of the universe, in that great happening which happened so long ago. And I have been waiting ever since.

And I’ve found you, my little bird. Right here inside my hands. You were broken and barely breathing, and I mangled your beautiful feathers with my blood and tears. And I am sorry, my darling, because you’ll never be clean again.

My little bird, my little bird, I love you so. So come lie with me in the night, and let me hold you in my arms. And when we wake in the morning, we will no longer be the same. We will no longer be these sad unhappy things.

If you’ll give yourself to me, I’ll give myself to you.

And if we, the rightful owners of each others’ souls, are united in that dark night of fear, that cold winter of hollow loneliness, then when the summer comes, and all is well once more, we will stay bound and united.

My little bird, fly away with me.

And never look back at this place that made us so unhappy.

All men insist that there is some great mystery to life.

Something we cannot see.

But they are wrong.

We know the truth of life, the very essence of it,

we know it all to well.

But we sing songs,

and we write poems,

and we fall in love, to convince ourselves that we are wrong.

To convince ourselves that the truth before our eyes

is only a part of this grand design, and not the whole.

But this is what we know. This is what we refuse to believe.

To be alive is to be alone.

And we’d all be better off if we didn’t wake up in the morning.

When I die,

throw my body in the drinking supply,

so that as I polluted the minds and souls of this world’s good people in life,

I may pollute their bodies in death.

In the night,

before the sleeping begins,

but after the waking trials of the days have ended,

they speak to me.

My Gods.

And they have but one message, time after time:

‘Everything is as you make it’.

And I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it through this alive.

But death is rebirth.

And rebirth is progression.

And what I need right now,

more than her beautiful face or lovely words,

is just a little bit of progression.

Become a slave to every pound on your body,

and to the dim blue light of the infomercial that can free you for just

5 payments of 99.95.

Let yourself hate the things the Universe made,

and sell your soul to destroy them

in the name of comfort,

and complacency,

and for the love god, never having to lift a finger again.

Let your gods be photographed on the red carpet,

and criticize their clothes, or their hair, or the amount of skin they show,

so that you can occupy your mind with any thought other than

Oh God, I’m so unhappy.

I won’t stop you.

I won’t save you.

Because no one can at this point.

And no one will.

I will spend my time with the broken things

which wished to become fixed.

And in the end,

you will be left behind.

To die.

To rot.

In the comfort of your easy-chair,

living your easy-life,

never being fucked to lift a finger again.