Black soul, immortal folds of latched right insight wrongly sold —
to selling high and leaving low, I pry the sides of what you know,
or want to know, and knowing, slowly, still you show me none of what you’ve gotten fully.
Jacked like acid, jacked like seeds of misconception; acid bleeds,
whether when or whether where, irrelevantly seeking care,
too lost, too long, too high, too airy, bleeding longer to your memory
of anachronistic faces, showing places where you wasted,
where you plastered planet Earth with all your bastards lacking worth.
Life is empty; life decayed. Past tense, present tense — you are tense —
seeking penitence in nonsense, fencing emptiness to others, shifting your dead weight to others.
Darker and brighter, greyer is lighter, stuck in the middle and dancing the fiddle,
high up on the fence where the choices are easy and feasibly made
to a life that will fade and remain in the grey when your senses decay.
In your mind you’re an addict — addicted to panic, to the manic;
it’s ironic how your life is so dead-set on seeking pleasure
when your pain cannot be measured, equal to your love of worth
in worthless items that give birth to nothing but depreciation.
Ever had a class in economics? I’ve been schooling you in phonics,
but you must have missed the lecture, caught up in your own conjectures.
Well, things worsen over time — become as worthless as your prime —
but with you it’s something evil: worthlessness almost primeval.
The world laughs at all your pain, yet you embrace it all the same.
Tell me now exactly how you can allow yourself to bow down to the world.
The world is worthless. It curses, and it hurts; then it nurses and converts.
In the end, when it all ends, I stand and smile as I watch its unintended fall.