arguing the semantics of giving up

i shed my vices
in order to pursue
a future
that never comes
focused myself
into a razor with which
to slash apart
the failing heart of
beauty itself

now i lay in pile
of gore and viscera
uncertain as to
which organs
belonged to me
after so long cutting
and bleeding
through the aether
over thousands of
regurgitated miseries

it isn’t a
relapse
just a continuation
of the road to ruin
i know as intimately
as the back of
my mother’s hand
anything to
deaden this ache
as my guts turn
to liquid putrefying
effervescently
to pool around my feet

a bottle of wine
an assortment of
little white lies
in pill form
a near comatose toast
to daydreams and a
future
that grows no nearer
a cloudy return
to the oblivion
more real than any
false hope imagined

the next round’s
on me
the one after
is me
on the floor
on and on and on
until either my heart
or the world
stops

i am no betting man
but i am certain
my self destructive tendencies
can trump
the entropic petulance
of the universe

these tumors don’t
remove themselves
or there would be
a fair share of
former surgeons
begging for change
on the street corners

and beauty won’t
scar itself
so i will take
a few more drunken swings
from the comfort of
my own disambiguaties
but i have given up
on affecting
any meaningful change
in world on rails
hurtling ever faster
to it’s own ending

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