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.

Fight!
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.