Bored With Nihilism

I’m bored with nihilism. 

I push colossal 

boulders and

smile on occasion.

I see Camus’s

face in the stone.

The meaninglessness of

it all cleanses the

detritus of my

question-mark soul.

Now there is nothing.

I couldn’t be happier.

The Nightmares Of Clocks

My nightmares are

perpetual as the clocks

within, revolving backwards.

The floors of our

home were

always rotted and

I cannot stop falling.

You’re sick, crying to

me for help when

my hands are

tied to Molotov’s.

I collapse into

the mold on

the ceiling.

It will

never make sense.

I’m Trying My Best

In trying my

best to be happy.

No more

wishes will be

tossed to the

apathetic moon; instead,

I raise a

fist to the

despotic sun.

I dismantle my

mental oppression with

my own

breath and voice.

My screams will

turn this

town into tears.

I don’t care if the

buildings wither.

I’ll rebuild in the

name of joy.


I fight for

everything to

be okay.

My fists are

caked in trauma.

I lick it off.

It tastes of raspberry

pie and shame.

My fingers spread to

pull down the

storm and replace

it with streetlights.

I see the path on

which I crawled lead

back to antiquity.

One day I’ll

carve my own

road through

the gravestones.

The Dirty Streets Of America

Our streets are

stained from the

lies of politicians.

We wash them

with shit.

The revolution is a

heart beating

love and anger.

We cannot do

nothing much longer.

They strip us nude and

cut us with

the constitution.

With broken

skin, we

choke their

fascist god and

replace it with

one whom has empathy.

We worship by

revolting and

reaching out our

iron hands.

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