Out there is a world of death surrounding me, regardless of the difference between love and misery.
The walls are coming down, they are trying to show me the world that’s out there, where the moon is only visible because of the sunlight that shines upon it.

Work in progress: I couldn’t care less.

My brain is hypnotized by drugs and my mouth repeatedly forms the never-ending words “cigarette smoker”
as I’m hopping on and off the little bench. My coloured legs cannot touch the same ground that keeps my ignorant mates together. They both tried to escape through a hole in the ground, but failed
when they saw their futures going up in the very smoke that escaped from their lungs.
Turn down the lights and light a cigarette
to set the building on fire instead.

“A pathetic fantasy” you called it,
and when you picked up your instrument you simultaneously dropped your accent.
We must make lyrics out of human flesh. We could be romanticists if we hadn’t turned into miscreants made out of mathematics.
The world is pressing hard upon my chest, trying to steal the smoky breath you blew into my lungs. But your spine won’t remember me tomorrow, and the lovebite in your neck will be the only proof of my existence.
Alright.
I’m going to turn off my phone and leave humanity alone.

Beep. Beep. Beep.