My theory is this:
no matter what mood
someone is in,
whether happy or sad,
the more you assert the idea
that actually they're grumpy
then the more likely it is
to inevitably be true.

This sense of overwhelming fear
is both fleeting and ephemeral,
I know it in my secret heart.

But that knowing doesn't stop it
from washing me with goosebumps,
where's my ******* vape?
Don't I have any zyn packs?
Feverishly patting myself down
like I'm my own TSA agent.
checking every pocket, twice,
three times over. Only finding my lighter.

****.

A cigarette **** rolls across the sidewalk,
pushed by the wind of a passing car or
maybe pushed by force of some higher power.
It bumps and tumbles it's way towards me,
I'm frozen in time with carnal wanting
as it comes to an abrupt stop at the tip
of my boot.

My eyes caress its crumpled shape,
I'm estimating exactly how many puffs
before I'd hit the orange filter.
My mouth is dry, I'm licking my lips.
My eyes suddenly dart around,
checking to see if anyone is watching me
then my gaze returns to the ground
as if magnetized. Pulled in. Just one pull.
Two, three puffs maybe.
Maybe just one good, long one.
Maybe.
Maybe just enough.

One's got layers,
both equally delicious.
Not concerned about nutritious.
Not concerned about tomorrow,
or about getting granola
stuck in my yellowed teeth.
The sound of a lighter flicking,
the smell of the cherry flickering.
Soft red glow,
mmm.
Blueish twine escapes my lips,
I take a spoon and start to mix.
Uniform yogurt treat,
this just can't be beat.

What are you
supposed to do
when your best friend
won't play vidya with you?

I am the singularity,
a golden omniscience
granted unwavering clarity
over all that passes
through my eyes.

I am God of my life.
I blink,
and everything is gone.

I sleep,
and everything is gone.

I'm right,
and everyone else is wrong.

It's exhausting.
It never ends.
I merely humor you all,
that's why I'm always laughing.

I ****** my pants
on my way home from work.
It soaked through
the seat of my pants
into the seat of my lifted Jeep
that I bought to compensate
for my crippling erectile dysfunction
that plagues my already
miniscule *****.

I got home and didn't even change my pants,
I took them off in the driveway
and wrung them out into my mouth
and just put them back on.
Drinking my own **** has always
been my secret way of enhancing
my paltry intelligence.
I was so stupid before I started drinking ****
and now I'm less stupider. I'm more less dumb. I'm getting more less dumb every day.

I **** myself too the other day but
that was just a bad roll of the dice
on a big ****. Snake eyes.
Big brown snake eyes.

Poetry is a ******* ******* and half-assed
way to express yourself.
People that write thousand of poems
on some throwaway website
might as well be screaming into a pillow.
They're useless people,
washed up, lazy,
and generally possess zero actual talent.

It's a medium designed
for pseudo-intellectuals to eternally
pat themselves on the back
for doing the bare minimum
of creativity.

Oh we're all so in touch with meaning,
oh we're all so ******* wasted on our
own sick sense of self-aggrandizing glory.

Poetry is for ******* ******* *******,
ineptitude on display
for other clapping, barking seals
to parrot and repeat
for eternity.