so late.

once i did promise myself
that in terms of agreement to this channel of thougths
that i would only write in my unproductive
and bluest destructive state..

promises are the bonds for hope
...and hopelessness

its 3:44 am
here i am at work
this pus. this muck. this fungus of a birdshit all around
never seem to leave
this waste of an experience;
i cannot account for everafter,
and i cannot say that i will not nor never.

and why waste the feel of this waste?
one can only sense a good bath
in terms to cleanse impurities that stain.
only in the finest hour such as this can you intriguingly say:
to kill your boss
and finish your enemy.
break the spirit
of the worthless.
detach your soul,
and lose control.
feel less gravity..

my mind is so pregnant with undesire
yet living it makes an equity worth bleeding for

how i dream of today as a sunday i will sleep
and never think of anything after.

i want to kiss her so close
that i can taste what she ate.
i envision to delight
a couch potato's disorder...
a dreamless sleep...
satiety after sex...
still moments after laughing..
a cigarette after dining..

a beer.

weed.

eyes shut and

just nothing/
and no one.

just darkness..

unexistence.

god
im so tired.