I think I used to be alive – but that is of no matter,
For I feel dead inside now and all my dreams are shattered.
The world’s about to end - but it’ll pass me by,
It's a fate I'm unconcerned with, and I don't even try.
It was the papers, I think they killed me -
Burnt by cruelty and drowned in tragedy,
A spirit suffocated beneath despair...
Or perhaps it was something else.
Idealism, a naive hope for better...
That life proved false again and again,
A flame extinguished, the life sucked inside out -
Until there was nothing left but a dull ache
For what? I don’t know
But as I’ve said, it’s inconsequential.
All we do is inconsequential in a world that’s spinning to disaster.
it’s not my problem though
and as you can see from this, i can’t quite be bothered even to
finish this poem properly. sue me.
I couldn't be bothered with punctuation and all the annoying stuff. oh well.
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