I live this strange little
existence–I don’t even know
what it’s supposed to be.
Strangled, laden with
shattered stuff:
fragments of a heart once beating
and pumping tangy blood.I breathe this so-called air of life
that kills me with each
proverbial toke–
when I would have wanted the
glamour of cigarette smoke.I roam the cruel streets
that scream of my
generation’s apathy.
And bleed with red and sunny-yellow
and acetylene-white.
Words, their wisdom
long lost.I love this wisp
of a being ready
to be snapped in two.
He’s the one who
means so much;
enough that I just have to
go on.
Living.
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