this exhaustion
feels positively
virulent
an encroaching
fugue of fickle
finality in the
face of frivolously
fervent false
facades of freedom

i passed my
breaking point
a few mile markers
back toward the
incessant hellfire
lapping at my lips
shifted the sharp
pieces of myself
through the razor
wire strung in
the shape of
cartoon hearts
managing to make do
with the shoddy remains
of who i once was
and sauntered like
a three dollar whore
to the nearest saloon
begged a disaster
to take me down in
a facsimile of love
then was shocked
when she slid off
her stool and out
into the miasma alone

anxiety and the
occasional attempt at
poetic sensibility
make for a roadside
marker celebrating
a world of shit