Fuck off

"so basically your saying that people are full of shit"
"well, i 'm saying that people don't know shit, that they got their heads so far up their asses that..... wait, not even that, they don't even give a shit where their head is at, as long as they are not bothered by the smell"
"And then you've got this asshole thinking that he is all zen and shit, just cuz he got sad seeing someone get his brains blown.... well, fuck him. nobody gives a rat's ass about someone eating a bullet, at least no one is gonna lose his dinner over it. they can give me drama and cry their heart out all they like, i would still think they are full of shit"
"And the funny thing is that this kinda bitching really appeals to people, works like a fuckin charm, probably plays on their basic emotions or whatever"
"so you spit any crap, blaming the world, thinking you're cool, well fuck you too, you are as jaded as the rest of them losers."
"at the end, all he really said that made sense is that he really didn't give a shit just like the rest of them, he never did, only he might of entertained the notion for sometime, while they believed they were all innocent fucks"
"you wanna hear about innocent? fine, i'll be your worn out piece of wisdom for the day; truth is nobody is innocent, they will tell you otherwise, but mark my words, we are all guilty as hell"
"guilty of what you stupid crazy bastard?"
"fuck off" he said at last.

Toxic

Offensive conjectures, the offering of a twisted mind, they surround us, murdering our spirit and nourishing our decay. Yet we welcome them, we welcome them all. We welcome them as they have welcomed us before. We welcome them because we must…

We are the reapers, gathering the toil of others. We are the horrid monsters that look back from your mirror. We are the magic makers, the spell enchanters, cursing you till the end of days.

We are the yoke of humanity, the chains around your neck. Deny us not our right to consume your soul. Deny us not, least you deny yourself.

They met on the golden shores of where-they said- was paradise. They ate crab legs and drank sea water. They spent their days counting the tiny grains of sand, and their nights counting the sparkling stars. They walked back and forth, hand in hand; they walked and never looked back. They spoke about nothing and everything; they spoke because they feared the silence.

The time was busy as usual, it hurried along and nobody could catch up with it. And people called but to no vain! The time was busy, yes indeed. Then one day while running to its chores, the time fell in love with a young and charming space. They stayed in each others company and forgot about the worries of the world. Until in the end, time was running short, and there was no more space.

Speak gently, whisper even, or else he might awaken. Dance on the tips of your toes, dance on the fragile tunes of silent music. Sing songs of joyful remembrance; sing while your frail limps shake from absolute terror. Caress his beautiful face in loving affection; caress the curves to remove their harshness. Drink from the cup of misery; drink without voicing a complaint.

The road that must end

The voices of the old, worn tires on the pavement speak for us, declaring that we cannot bare the load anymore.
The images from the dim, grey road portray us, showing the state of our demise.
The thick, black fumes clouding our judgment, existing because we produce them, are there to suffocate us.
The dark, deep holes in our path, do more than just cripple us, they are there to swallow us whole or deliver us to the next one.
The intense, reflected light from the mirror, it blinds our vision and leaves us impaired.
The high pitched, loud squeal of the brakes cries for us, voicing our pain and anguish.
The small, uninteresting numbers that grow with each step, they mark our journey and signal that sooner or later it is bound to run out of digits.
The sudden, impulsive turning of the wheel exposes us, reminding us of our fragility.
The unending, hungry chaos represents us, standing for our greed and indifference.
The irritating, repetitive horns, annoying to all but us, prove our vulgarity.