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What’s the Point of Me?

November 9, 2018

(This poem is meant to be read as fast as possible)




The sound of a snare drum beating a rhythmic gallop roared.
There’s a fit in my feet as I stammer over a quite tall curb,
the agility of a blundering lummox dropped me, I’m floored.
Nevertheless, I climb to my feet and begin a transcending decent into my madness.
A calm interlude of static images and fiery eyes keep me in close proximity to my goal.
My crazy legs pump, left then right and then left and then left again, there’s a snag on my foot- and once again I find myself faced down holding a woman’s purse.
I panic, who put that there!?
After standing, I find my victim.
Sordid, saddened, and superfluous.
The purse finds its way to the victim through the means of the air.

Collectively constructed algorithms of uncultured thought through the means of societal indignities, we find another mental schmuck attending his own sentencing.
Three counts of a misguided sociopath, which leads to over fifteen years in prison.
What’s there to be said about the masses?
What’s there to be said about the kind of person who put their own well being above all?
It’s a Godamn shame when there’s something to be said about the-
He screeches, “I didn’t do it!” Minutes after admitting to his deeds.
“I’m being framed!” The last-ditch effort of an absolute pile of human shit.
The darkness before the storm rages.
I before he except after me.
Victims left in satanic poses of debauchery.
The very organic flavor of our days, which leans on the unabashed vision of one’s own pleasure to feast upon another, for mere power and a perverted validation.

If you can do me one favor, leave a message after the beep, and I’ll try to get back to you.
I’m off! Trying to figure out the right kind of combination of skin treatments.
For the world, I better look as silky and smooth as possible.
The timer dings and another face mask makes its way to my trash bin.
One thing for sure is that a clean and clear face cannot cleanse ugliness, but that’s really what’s within.
God this fucking face mask does nothing to my perfectly natural looking pores.
My deceit is perfectly monetized in the intellectual value of endorphins through the simple means of likes and retweets.

What’s the point of me?
Which is where the lines of chaos begin.
What’s the point of me?
The thing we should ask ourselves over and over again.


From → Poems

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