The taste of fear,
Smells like procrastination,
A countdown to destruction,
Self-loathing masturbation.
Trapped in a cell of guilt,
Shackled by the song and dance,
There’s an apathy that cracks my bones.
Words scribbled hastily
Like a blood-shot faux pas—
Can’t indemnify this derailment.
This meaningless, seeming
Less or more
Like nothingness.
