A little death
    begins at the end.

You keep telling them how woke you are
     Wish you’d smash the snooze

9 minute rhetoric In reverie-
Peel your eyes from the screen
Enlightened by one source
it’s their truth written
All
Over
Your
Face
And you say you won’t wear a mask;

Checking on old friends
in a new year-
means getting met
by a Memorial Page

Remembering you
Getting blazed listening to Cudi
While we turnt up and laughed as our friends ****** in the next room;

In the pursuit of happiness, you were gone and forgotten too soon
Until social media flashes memories
Between things it tries to sell me
And this legacy-
It’s that time of the year I’d be at ISU
getting high with the Man on the Moon

Living with a too late afterthought -
I should have been there for you
Life gets in the way
What can I say
I’m always on my own *******
I’m sorry if I ever let you down
I just wish I didn’t find out you were dead through Facebook;

It’s a new year of isolation
Check on your ******* friends;

My heart is an abandoned mosh pit;
I miss you beating the **** out of me in cadence-
some sonic *******
thrashing through the motions
moaning the music through my body electric
with liberation lashes enlighting me up.
I miss leaving mused and abused
dripping of our sweat-
Left writhing and pulsating in an echo chamber screaming my lungs out pretending to sing along with you-
working every ounce of energy out of me until you’re fulfilled
and I feel less vacant;

We live in an era of sociopath glamorization,
virtually devoid of empaths.

Welcome to the Evil Empire-
but first,
let me take a selfie;

Virtual pandemonium
In the terrordome
Of social anxiety-attacks
Of one truth shared more than the other
Smashing reacts to your
emotions of the moment
For the illusion of your audience
Written all over your face
Wrapped like a mask
Of a faux influencer
Speaking of change-
fashioned but never took action.
Now history is a broken record
Looping a distress call thru
The ether.
All the worlds enraged
And you’re just a crisis actor

If all the world’s a stage
then anxiety is a crisis actor

The trickster archetype
typecasting all my critical thoughts as truths

Into a monster of the weak
rogue gallery
of self-destructive episodes

Maybe it’s the lack of SSRI’s
but SI be like:

Since they slashed and burned
half the forest preserve
maybe you should slit your wrists
and self-immolate in the center of it;

Maybe you should spill
your guts like seppuku
at the center of Daley Plaza
underneath The Picasso
outside that Shepard Fairey exhibit
(Provocateurs; Block 37)
Call it an art instillation

If all else fails, I’ll just throw myself in front of a Tesla on the North Shore