I live among the vile refuse of a left over life.
Everything out of place.
Everything chaotic.
Everything past its expiry date and broken.
A disassembled discordant choir that sings slurs to an angelic host.

The kipple keeps accumulating and I have become one.
With the cigarettes ash and my poorly done tattoos.
NIghts spent in intoxication rambling to myself.
Complex mythologies derived from symbolic associations.
This is reality.
This is divine.
This is the flayed lord, wearing the skin of a sacrifice.


I wallow in the fetid revolting mind that plagues me with.
Existence.
Change and transformation.
Is the ego death of the shaman.
Indoctrinated into taboo spirits.
And ghosts.
Demons.

And.
Are you beautiful?
Well collected and coherent?
Some sort of angel down here in the.
Slums?

Skid row ain't got nothing on me.
As I ferment in the juices of my overbearing ego.
One track mind.
One thought.
One last breath to curse in vain.

I will desecrate the temple.
God gave me.
And become a blasphemy.
Taboo cast out trickster God.
Of a forgotten time.
Rabid coyote.
Biting everything it can.
From an impulse I can't understand.

Spread the virus.
Burn the sacred grounds.
Cover yourself in ash.
And proudly wave the heresy.
In the face of the light.

I wanted perpetual darkness.
I wanted to be a sound in the night.
Fear.
Trembling.

Exegesis.

And if the beasts devour each other.
Who am I to stop them?
Tearing at the throat of a rival billionaire.
I revel in the blood.
The gurgling sound of all their immoral.
Decisions, spoken through broken voices.
To deaf ears.

I cheer on the cannibalism of the bear.
That threatens my life, my reason to be.
I glory in the suffering of the beast who had me by the neck.
I encourage the misery.
I flatter the thing which brings salvation.

And, I know deep in my traitors heart.
I will skin the beast that devours the bear.
Consume its children.
Eliminate its seed.
If even given a chance.

Submission comes with hidden knives.
Poisonous potions and other schemes.
I am no hero.
No honour to be found in me.
I've lived my life in desperation.
Fear and darkness.

But, if all the conditions are set.
I'll **** every beast in the valley.
Unfortunate enough to get too close.

I'm a snake in the grass.
You knew I was an adder *****.
Why did you let me in?
God won't stop me, so doesn't God consent?

You get what you deserve.
In the Kali Yuga.
And, me, I'm Amram.
******.

Mahakala will destroy in time.
Abaddon will be let loose and obliterate the wicked.
Samael will be crowned king of Satans and wreak havoc..

Until Azrael whispers the final word.
Death has come.

I met the girl of my dreams.
An existential compliment.
To everything I thought I wanted.

And,
We didn't really stay together.
At the end.
We just didn't care.

But, we were inseparable from the start.
A passion past by on lazy hazy grey days.
Where the sun hides behind dismal clouds.
Brooding in the sky.

She was my own personal manic pixie dream girl.
That I heard about in movies.
I never watch.

Yet,
I pushed her away.
I cheated,
I lied,
I took her for granted.
I acted contrary to how I thought I would.

I'm not a very mature person.
I'm not good.
I'm not boyfriend material.

I thought she deserved.
Someone successful.
And me,

I was born bad.
Kept chomping at the bit of the Devil's ways.
Immolating every night into a nightmare.
An intoxicated degenerate.
Grovelling in my filth.

And, when she left to become a librarian.
I distanced myself from her and worked through my.
Emotions.
Alone.

So when the inevitable goodbye came.
When my stable life imploded.
When my plan came to fruition.
When she left.

When everything fell apart
I was buffered against the pain.
But, not her.
She balled.
Like she still cared about me.

After all that time I pushed her away.
From her flirtations with other men.
To her forgiveness for my bad behaviour.
I consumed her.

So.
She cried.
Uncontrollably.

I was a stone.

And I remember youthful nights where we.
Would go look at the stars.
Just outside of town where they were crystal clear.
Laughing at the spontaneous romantic event.
That I used to get my hooks in.

I remember the playing.
Sitting around.
The shape of her ***.
The feeling of belonging.
And, the feeling of absence.

I used to lose sleep over her being gone.
She used to haunt my dreams.
A ghost in the machine.

Then one day.
In a distance past tomorrow.

I realized.

That I wasn't in love with her.
Just.  
The thought of her.

And,
My,
Nostalgia for youth.

She was the symbol.
For all my bad choices.
That I want other people to make.

I was born a violent man.
Even though I'm not good at it.
All of my vindictiveness.
All of my resentment.
All of my things which percolate and bubble up from my rotten core.
Consume me.

In the euphoria of rage.
I've bled buckets in the aftermath.
Broken ribs from kicks on the ground.
Broken fists on someone's face.

I might not be the flame that consumes your car.
But, I poured the gasoline.

I am divine.
I am holy.
In my furious furor.
I want to explode.
As my bones tear through flesh.
Amputate lest it gets infected.

A tribute to Cybele.
I want towers shot with RPGs.
Clothing racks on fire.
Trumpeting your broken body.
With concussive force.

Headless corpses lining the streets.
Awash in a thick puddle of fetid blood.
Coagulating in my compassion.
Lumps of human blood sausage.
Rotting in the sun.
The smell of iron and taste.
Of adrenaline

Life is never short enough.
And, I swear to cause as much damage.
As I can.

Hack the hands off the wicked.
For every thief that stole a part of me.
Never to give it back.
I want my.
Vengeance

I will become Abaddon.
The angle of destruction.
A stray bullet.

And I want anihilation..
I want it to all fall apart into rubble.
Reigning over my empire of broken dreams.
And broken bodies.

I will conquer the refuse left over.
With persistence.

And vile.

Putrid hate.

The wind blows through the emptiness.
Of this place.
Out here in nowhere.
The climate is harsh.

It.
Bites.
No matter the season.

In the cities.
The wind exhausts itself.
Without the vast brushstrokes of prairie indigo at sunrise.
And sunset.

And the wind is usually.
Tearing through the streets.
Accentuating the cold.
By twenty degrees.
Below zero.

Whether it's wheat or snow.
Something always envelops the horizon.
As I'm lost at the height.
Of the sky.

These cumulus nimbus clouds.
Pepper the sky with slight accents of pillowy soft white.
In the vast blue sky.

Everywhere is silence when the snow blankets the ground.
Cept in summer you can hear the dull humm of insects.
The yipping of coyotes baiting dogs to lunch.
Magpies eating pigeons.

And they say that hard climates make hard people.
At least I'm resilient.

Sing a song.
Make it sad.
Cause I'm crying without.
These meds.
It's too early to fantasize about.
Success.
But I welcome the return.
Of emotion.
Even though.
My past isn't something.
I can deal with.
Right now.

Without the chemical lobotomy.
I'm depressed.
Everything has a personal meaning.
That I remember.

So I just have to push past.
This.
Incoherent mass of.
Feelings.
That were muted and benign.
Before, but not now.

Now they're prescient.
My tears well up within me.
And my flat effect is replaced.

By a deep tragic sadness.

I desire a long.
Resfull sleep.
That I don't wake up from.

Some kinda self similar.
Fractal pattern.
That grows in one dimension.

Slumber until I'm consumed.
By moss and other.
Lichen.

Sleeping beauty found his rest.
And rots.
As all lovely things turn to dust.

Receding into darkness.
As somethings playing.
Theta wave thought contractions.

I slept through.
My reason to live.
Somehow ended up in.
Here.

Apparently I'm resilient.
Resistant to the drug induced coma.
I find myself in every night.
Vivid dreams I don't want to leave.

Did I see you in there?
In my kaleidoscope nightmare.
These ashen memories are indistinguishable.
From my dreams.

I may have known you.
In real life.
But I can't tell.
Cause the passing chaotic visions.

Rouse me from my.
Slumber.

The sun is up and it blinds my sight.
With
all this snow.

A flashbang grenade went off.
As my eyes water and recoil in pain.
At the brilliance of the light.

I am bathed in blindness.
Glaring on the horizon.
The oppressive omnipresent light.
That binds me to walk blindly.

I'm praying for dirt, something to break up the glare.
Of the sun reflected from the ground.
Directly into my eyes with a luminescent halo.

It's refracted.
Yet I don't see a rainbow.
I just lurch along the road.

What if all this misery.
Was as simple.
As getting the dose.
Right.

I'd be aghast at the stupidity of it.
If it were true that.
These doldrums.
I keep wallowing in.

Were just a balance of
Neurochemicals.
In my brain.
That I never got.
Quite right.

Maybe the despair was less poignant.
Less precise.
Than an equal measure.
Of a bitter pill.

Where does my inspiration go.
For these bleak little snapshots.
Of my private life.
These odes to anihilation?

I might have to start.
Writing vague love poems.
Again.
About some eponymous woman.
I've never met.

So, let this dopamine and norepinephrine.
Sing me to my sleep.
As I start to like.
Waking up.

It's all unfolding.
So catastrophically well.
That sometimes.
These warcrimes.
Seem justified.

But, that's just the rotting over.
Of my moral life.
Getting beyond good and evil.
Some Zen enlightenment.

And,
The acceptance.
Of life how it is.
What's possible.

And,
How you can.
Get it.

Gets muddied up in the graveyard.
Of ideology.
As my opportunistic spirit.
Keeps telling me.

Less is better.

If none can't be.
Achieved.

Down here in the coolies.
Right down by the slough.

I sit.

In the mud and ***** things.
Exasperated in my exhaustion.
Lying among dog tails and sweet grass.
Spear grass and hand picked sage.

And, let this smoke carry my sacrifice.
To the spirts.
And may they dim the sun.
So it doesn't beat down on me so.

As the sun turns orange.
Pink.
And red.
The sunset.

Announces the coming.
Of the cool night air.

And, I see Hugin and Munin.
Or, is it just raven.
In pairs.

And I know Odin.

Is watching.
But I always mix these mythologies up.
Even though they're so common.

Into the darkness.
Away from the light.
The ***** of creepy crawly things.
Rotten and impure.

One can't steal the sun.
One can't hide in noon day.
One can't run when the sun is on the horizon.
There's nowhere to abscond to, to be free from the.
Remand of life in the searing heat.
A jail of vile sweat.

I do not seek illumination Lucifer.
For in the shadows there lies me.
Mangy.
Rabid.
Starving.
Coyote the trickster stuck in desperation.
Nipping at the air.
Biting at the ghosts of dead men.
Dehydrated and delirious.

And if raven stole the sun.
Coyote ate your pets.
And barks at you.
So you think he's
A dog.

Ensconced in my own shadow.
Coyote.
Offers a panicked prayer.
To all the dim places.
Where in the din of silence.
I might lick.
My wounds.

I offer this, my life.
As a sacrifice.
To the restless dead.
To the hungry ghosts.
And all lines that end.

The fury of the tornado is fierce.

And, we have such little time.
Let me defy the fates.
May the Gods accept my offering.
Of blood.

As,
The shedding of blood.
Is sacred.

Death.
My friend.
Let us make amends.
Bury the hatchet.

For I smell war in the air.
I hear the cacophony of artillery.
Rumbling in the distance.

And, if you'll let me death.
I shall **** as many of the invader.
As you will let me.

Let me die in vain.
Unknown and unloved.
So my ancestors won't weep.

For my cowardice.
I shall bravely march off to my anihilation.
And I hope I go to Hell.
Ontop of a pile of corpses.
Of these savages.

And what is this life.
But the falling of sand.
Through fingers.

Please death.
May I take the enemy with me.
If he comes.

Let me send you lovers.
Into the afterlife.
Til you come yourself.

To get.
Me.

Every night.
I dream I die.
And,
I am reborn in the morning.

I have one foot in that far off place.
One foot in here.

I first went through the ego death.
Of a.
Shaman
At 18.

I channel spirits.
In charnel psychosis.
I am them.
When I act like them.

The mask I wear today.
Is never the mask I wore yesterday.
And, who am I?
Among all these ghosts.

Light breaks softly.
Through the cracks.
I was told was in everything.
But I run from it.

Because it ruins the dark.

I will be an addendum.
In the book of life.
A simple caveat.
That the light couldn't reach.

My own personal.
Perpetual.
Darkness.

And you.
Illuminating my disgust.

I think fondly.
About the end.
Of death.

No more depression.
No more thoughts.
No more failures to be ashamed of.

A still peaceful calm.
That I won't experience.

No loss.
No wants.
No screaming at the sun for everything to stop.
No fear.
No disappointment.
No wondering why.
No socialising.
No self doubt.
No never eating.

And all these addictions.
Will just end.

No one to let me down.
No more discomfort.
No wasting idle time.

I will be and recede.
Into the nothingness I crave.

An eternal dreamless sleep.

Its heaven really.

I am the epilogue.
Of Mr. Self Destruct.
The degenerate who somehow.
Pulled through all the overdoses.
To live unprepared.
Without a plan.

If living on borrowed time was a person.
It would be me.

Failure to die.
Has led to me becoming.
Incompatible with living.

So I eke out a life.
Of nothing.
A lobotomized.
Hikiko mori.

A world renouncer.
Waiting for the reaper.
Alone in my room.

No one will notice when I die.
Til the smell gets so bad.
That they'll know.

I left a putrid black stain.
On the floor.

I'm never up in the morning.
Unless I'm about to go to bed.
And, I prefer it at night.
My life.
In the calm.
Barren.
Streets.
I lay my claim to all the quiet places.
Where I can go alone.
To be by myself.

My depth is shallow.
My mind, fractured.

And, all these coudla beens.
Hit me too early.
In this afternoon wakefulness.

There's a pit in my gut.
But it dies once the speed kicks in.
I don't feel like eating anything other.
Than cirgarettes ash.

The general sense of being.
Unwell.
Is constant

I never know what I'm trying to say.
So I wing it.
And, try to write something.

Precise.

Cause,
English is not a good language for poetry.
It sounds so choppy.

So malformed.

Bereft of inspiration.

Borrowed words from passing cultures.

This is narration.
This is the tautology.
Of stating a fact.

Forcing myself to write.
So I don't forget the difference.
Between prose

And.

Poetry.

The drugs just get me by.
And they're so mundane.
Comforting me softly in.
I'm ok with right now.

It's never strong enough.
To knock me out.
To fill this boredom with alright.
Everything for a moment of levity.

I want my mind to break
I don't wanna think.
I want to be subsumed in some feeling I don't.
Have.

For just a moment.
One second.
Of comfort.

Every drug is a footnote of what I've done.
Catalogued among all these bad trips.

I would have an excuse.
But, it's all so innocuous now.
Relatively normal.
To be around hard drugs.

Dingy basements smelling of mould.
And four pounds of morphine.
Mean men with mean tattoos testing me.
As though I'm not a degenerate.

A counter indication or  two.
The benzos make me mad.
I sleep on speed.
As I always get uncomfortably high.

Always making bad decisions.
Always taking too much.
Always groveling in my filth.

And, I make it a badge of  honour.
That I persist.
To get high again.

Tomorrow.

I'm always *****.
But I think a little earth.
Is a good omen.
Ties me to the spirits.
Of the dirt.

All of these little nic naks.
I track around like muck.
Is just a talisman.
Where nature follows me everywhere I go.
As organic.
As my techno paleo paganism.

I count the rabbits I see.
I look for ravens.
I bless the magpies as they pass by.
I commune with the coyotes and yip at the moon.

Bark sometimes.
To scavenge a meal.

I'm a fox.
Curled up in my feet.
That the ****** eagle.
Ate.
One day when I couldn't help.

My fox friend.

It chases me.
Miles still in my memory.

***** ditches.
Thrown away trash.
All enmesh in my vagrant heart.

And,
I am offal.
Poorly spelled.
And half as well articulated.

But.
At least I can still.
Commune with a spirit or two.

I can't.
Co ordinate the.
Chaos anymore.

And, I feel like screaming.

I'm real.

Until my vocal chords break.
Bleeding out some cry.
To the heavens.

Existence is the torture.
Of banal nothing.
Coalescing into an.
Instant regret.
From an impulsive.
Rush.

But I've learned.
Each dramatic outburst.
Was a call for help.
A communication.
So I learned how to act.
Normal.
Keep it to.
Myself.

When.
In my mind.

Well,
I can't keep track now,
Can I.

I don't recognize myself.
Even after being so self centred.
So vainly obsessed.
With being so effortlessly classy in my thrift store clothes.
Yet, somehow.

I'm handsome.
I got style.

And,
I don't get it.
I see myself.
But don't recall there being a me.
That I could see.
Just some dysmorphic neuroses.
An anonymous face.

So, I'm gonna change on the regular babe.
Can't stand something static.
It doesn't still the noise.
Or chill my nerves.

I want to be anything but something.
Consistently.
The same.

I declare my quasi identity.
I emit an amorphous persona.

I am the flux state of Nolan.
Dynamic fashion.
All in ruddy shades of black.

The snow carpets everything.

And I can't see.
It's so bright.

The white permeates existence and shines oh so brilliantly.
Blotched here and there with the thrown up refuse of passing cars.
***** grey stains on the blinding incandescent light.

My eyes hurt.

As I see the silhouette of a magpie.
Chasing away a mangy old fox who won't survive the winter.
And  I'm always tired.
Walking on.
This slippery ice.

I always catch myself.

Before I fall.

But,
My scarf is falling down.
The wind bites my legs.
I am unfortunately always unorganized and unprepared.

But.
In my mind.

I'm striking a pose with an idealized fantasy image of myself 23 years ago.
So I look in the mirror

and slip.

Still an old man.
Still walking.
Still broke.

And still unable to see.
Directly into the sun.

I've given up on.

Love.

Everyone's the same.
And, I don't know where to
meet anyone.

Least alone someone.
I would
like.

Smart women who like art.
Bad poetry.
Good fashion sense.

Won't
go for.

Holy renunciates like me.
Trance states and hallucinogens.
Metaphorical symbolic mythology and ranting.
About God and a malplaced accident.

And, baby, I don't  like basic *******.
Unless I'm *****.

But, love?

It's a foreign thing that women throw around.
That I hear too much of.
From conditional people
And I make it awkward.

I just met you.

I've met a lot of people who haven't met anyone like me before.
But, never.
The Opposite.

I used to believe in love at first sight.
Then I took a look.

And,
My desire is ankle deep.

She told me she was never happy.
As I made her laugh.

And,
She said that she felt alone.
Whenever she talked to me.

And,
Maybe I don't pick on signs.
But, I wonder if it coulda been something good.

If I had just said hello.

Maybe made her laugh.
I don't really know.
I'm relatively oblivious to the things.

Going on around me.

I don't know the difference.
Between one mystifying display of emotion.
From the other.

But shouldn't being happy when.
Mostly you're miserable be a sign.

There coulda been an us.

I remember.
When God told me.
'Is this the best you can do?  Life in a room?'

And from my heart I said.

In here.
I can forget I exist.

Exist.

Only as a stray thought.
It's not my prison.
It's the twenty feet I can control.

When everything is so.

Fragile.

Everything.
All the time.
All at once.
And, I make sense.
Out of the tangents.
Writing the narrative that is my life.
And, will you be a footnote in the poorly worded.

Dialogue.

And, will you be a friend to the no one I've become.
An, index to all my poor plot choices and poorly rounded characters.
That pepper my life.
With the mundane.

Mediocre.

The sky is so beautiful.
On fire.

I'm a conflagration.
Away from an Apocalypse.
And the beasts they bray.

In their fields.
With their burdens.

And me.

I'm suavely waving off all responsibility.
Just doing my time.
In this prison.
Waiting for my body.

To catastrophically fail.

I scream.
And no one hears me.
So I cut the perormative ****.
Hurl about my verbal diahrrea.
***** it to the lights on the screen.
Safe in the liminal state.
Of I'm not really here.
I'm just wasting time

I only get happy when I'm in these.
Liminal trance states.
Where I can forget.
Linear time.
And,
It's worse than I ever told you.

In my whole life.
Cause.

Remember.

I didn't tell you.
A God ******.
Thing.

I crytpically write my fate.
With each cigarette.
Dying of pulmonary oedema.
An abstract aneurysm.

Some kinda blood clot.
And.
My pressure is high.

My lungs.
Black.

But God.
Won't let me.
Die.

So I hack up until I get the feeling.
Of vomiting in my lungs.
A torch song.
Dry hacking until.

It dislodges.
From these maladaptive.
Coping mechanisms.

Life in a nutshell.

Neurotically wistful about neotonous memories.
While your bad behaviour.
Takes its silver farthing from you.

A mockery of your former self.

The sun impresses fire into my being.
And.
I want to steal it.
And bury it deep.
In Tyrannus' depth.

I walked among the funeral pyres.
Caked in the dust of so many dead.
Things.
And.
On the horizon is coming autumn.
In the air is stinging winter.

How many cycles left?
How many austerities.
Til I break through.

To the Gods and spirits.
And, offer my taboo trickster spirit.

Some blood.

From a sacrificial offering.

It cuts like fire.
It burns a knife inside my soul.
This is irrelevant.
This is unmediated.

And on all the indigo sunsets.
I etch my epitath.

I am in darkness.
The light has gone out.
And.
I am now rotting.
Fetid.
Foul.

Tyler says.
My problem has always.
Been my paranoia.

But he neglects the self doubt.
The self hatred.
Or the hallucinations.

And, every day I struggle.
With the will to live.
Especially when it turns out.
I'm not really that unique.

Id hate to be the person.
Who admires.
My imperfections.

Every new beginning.
Exists more poignantly.
In my fantasy.
Than in reality.
And the grandiose delusions.
Are finally wrong.

I'm simply.
Mundane.

Important to no ones.
Story.

I have no deus ex machina.
Just personal private moments.

And poorly worded.
Psychosis poetry.

I'm.
Not.

Missing.
Out.

On.
Life.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.
To.
Die.­

It's.
Not.
Exactly.

What.
You.

Want.

But,
I.
Never.

Asked.

The.
Sun.
Has.
Burnt.
My.
Hangover.
Into.
My.
Soul

I'm.
Gasping.­
For.
Air.

With.

Leather.
Backed.
Lungs.

And.
Baby.

Maybe.
Yo­u.
Got.
Me.
All.
Wrong.

As.
I.
Lurch.
Forward.

Or.
Lay.
Down.
A­nd.

Fade.

Into.
The.
Bleeding.
Days.

Where.

Yesterday.
Became­.

Today.

In.
The.
Sunset.

With.
Nausea.

Everyday.

I struggle.
To find.
Basic.

Motivations.

To live.

Other.
Than.

Drugs.

Today.
I feel.
Like.
I don't.
Wanna
See.

Tomorrow.

With.
Cognizant eyes.

My utopia.
Of.
Endless release.

The.
Hope.
For.
Annihilation.

Just one day.
Of.
Non.
Existence.

Forever.

Sing.
Me.
A melody.

And make it.
Out of tune.

Off.

Key.

One day.
I'll.
Wake.
Up.

And.
This.

Will.
Make me.
Happy.

And none of the things.
You've ever.
Done to me.
Will.
Hurt.

None of the loss.
The good byes.
To people.
Who were.

Never.
Really there.

And I'll dance.
In that fantasy.

Coming.
Back.
To
Something.

I.
Tried.
To.
Love

Everything.
Seems so.
Pointless.

As though.
Nothing.
Improved.

Years spent.
Refining.
My writing.

For what?
Comments.

Live chats.

Everything.
Transitionary.
Liminal.

Passions.
Are what.
You can't stop.
Doing.

Even if you think it's futile.

It feels like something.

Serious.

Is creeping behind my perceptions.
Ruining the high I do got.
Stalking me.
Hunting me with the  ever present concern for.
Withdrawal symptoms.
The Police.

Any sort
of calamity.

And, is there enough euphoria to power me through this doldrums.
But, that's my prerogative.
Guilt and shame arise in my subconscious.
Cause I keep getting an intrusive thought.
That the  cops are coming.
Someone knows something.
I'm dying.

Or
have I transcended.

Early in the morning.
Or is it late last night.
These oft regretted amphetamine psychosis nights make me mourn my potential.
I never get hopes,
I get dichotomous thinking.
Everything horrible.
All the time.

I'm stuck in a quick frustration, a whistling electrical circuit sings its high pitched swan song to the epilogue of  my life.
And right here.
And right now

Time has told me that
This is more superfluous stress.
I don't need.

High as ****.
Time suspended in the liminal prison of temporary thoughts.
My consciousness overwhelmed with drugs I don't even like.
The euphoria  is nice and I think I had somethinng profound to say.
I've forgotten that I was even alive.
I have slain time and am not worrying about trauma and  failure.
My own personal psychoactive nirvanna.
Stuck in a trance state.

But, the speed orders me on.
I have many incoherent rants to make.

I have so many.

Incoherent and vague things.
To say.

I'm.
Just.
Waiting.

To die.

And everyone.
Wants me.

To.
Live.

I rather.
Like.

Innocuously.
Day.
dreaming.

Love was.
Something.
I used to.

Long.
For.

Now.
It's just.
A sentimental.
Performative.

Poorly done.
Art.
Piece.

Every.
Waking.
Moment.

I long.
For the still.
Sound.

Of.
Silence.