Asphyxia

I grasp and crack and choke and die on
your insufficient inexistence. You are only known to
boys who breathe the same shit you do and
they don't like you, anyway. Fill your lungs with
smog. Fill mine with the ignorance and insanity you want
so badly to be made of. Then try to blow it off, see
what happens when HIGHER LOUDER FASTER doesn't
matter because you're soaring on some superficial
faux-high and pretending to drop your tennis
racket on your best friend's feet.

Pretending I don't care is optional, since
you'd never notice whether or not I
saw your buddies laughing at your incompetence. They
know you're faking and you're too scared to
be like them. But don't ask me because I don't
matter. She thinks you're fun to laugh
at when you're drunk.

And when you try to breathe oxygen, try
to inhale what won't pollute you and
your entire being, you've forgotten how to
press the buttons that make the pretty
noises on your pretty instrument. I hope
you didn't pay for that because you need the
money for your next blunt. Your brother
says you've gotten better but he knows
less than he thinks he does. Other countries mean
other options for your un-health and fucking
unhappiness.


I hope you don't miss the
clean air as much as I do.