I am so toast.
How did I get here?
I’ve got ulcers the size of…well, the size of Texas.
Pizza in my face, becoming my face.
I’m crisping up in a classic oven.
The critics of my soul gagging with disgust.
We need to put a recall on this one.
There’s my name in the book, next to the other blatant insults.
Car littered with cylinders that contain caffeine products,
Fluids that fuel my self-perpetuated charade;
Their spilt stench mingles with the gasoline leak.
I can’t afford that repair.
I can’t afford a diaper to catch my kid’s shit.
But I’ll be damned if I can’t spend three fifty on a Red Bull.
At the apex of self-absorption,
At the utmost bottom of self-indulgence.
There you’ll find me, playing with myself.
Wipe my hands on a dirty towel.
Later it’ll be used by guests I can’t wait to shoo out.
My toilet sees more vomit than piss.
My eyes have this stinging in the back of them.
Lack of sleep, no window tint.
I dream of a delicious knife to slice through my sternum,
I don’t want to die;
I just want to bleed out all the bullshit.
I want to be…
An electronic cigarette speaking to me.
Telling me, “You’re as fake as I am.”
I felt the wildlife as she spat on my manufactured countenance,
Fully aware of my half-ass recycling habits
And self-righteous preaching.
Hating the people who pick the flowers from the ground,
All the while wanting them all to myself.
A giant bouquet to greet me
Throw in a theme song
It will sound something like
A ball dropping.
I am so toast.