"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Scud of a Prophylactic Apocolypse

-VII, Final-

Hate for you
I proliferate
For the fact that I had gave
You so much wanton
Consideration
And deliberate emplacement
Under virulent rays
Of self-abasing
Personification…

You transmogrified
Bearing as a loathsome hoard
Which only from inured demons
Could be spate!

Now I only want to
End everything I reign;
This shoddy animation
And commit to suffering.

I have finished my sextette
Attempted a next part
But have exhausted
My energy in vain.

No one read,
No one bled
Not one produced a fucking damn.

In a conspiratorial hell, thus
My life I cant on…
Utterly
Uniquely…
A rotten,
Embittered sham…
I aspire to supplant
What I can requite completely…
With the debauch.

This, my last poem,
Lets you know
I was man.
Whether you accept it,
The world could not change…
So I am only a shell
Of what could have been,

And wrought is now,
An undead,
Estranged.

-Fin-

-Thursday, December 18, 2008

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