Everything seems to make me sick

my stomach turns

I have lost intrest

i see hoards of people

lost as lab rats

in new labryths

its late

I have not slept

and there are

suddle hits of anger

supresed

told to be quite in there

its loud, really loud

and then like the silence

at the end of the apoclypse

its gone

all gone

and a smile starts to adorn

my mature morbid face

i remember when it was younger

when the word hope was in my venacular

and wonder was in my finger tips

and promise stretched to all the roads

over all the lost highways

i would once visit

and later be disapointed

in search of more

like serial killers

we have to have hobbys

to keep sane

and down the drain we go

i wanted to leave you with something

but i didnt pack it with me this time

your just a canvas

to Polock ideas of a Wexlar test

I am he who makes birds fly

and yet, no one cares