Finally, it again trickles down to this,
Sitting here drugged on my existence.
I know of nothing I couldn't repeat
In my life without fail.


Is this the only way to be?
To be wasted every morning that you get up
And see the improper Sun on the properties of
lowly humans trying their best to make it to another day.
I have done that so far. With my mind numbing down.
Slowly. Accurately.


I am still am swimming in the orb,
Of things that don't matter.
Somehow, I have come to realise that you cannot
"Do art". It's just a bit too hypothetical
Art, lives like a parallel to everyday strangeness.


A pornstar cannot acclaim that she does like sex so much,
That she chose the adult industry.
Sadly, I have no means of living in both;
The everyday strangeness and in the Art of my being.
Never good at anything. That is a tad bit me.


I need to get out of this constant drudgery
Intoxication is eating me up from inside.
I need health. So bad,


Till anything better comes up,
It will be long.