I look down at my hands

and it is as if

I am expecting greatness

when I would settle for brilliance

and left with onomatopoeia

my generation has bought

into the individual identical con

everyone is a hero

but no one is a martyr

we progress towards year zero

in search of the peaceful POW

everyone gets it wrong

we are illusions

myths that become mirages

old men telling story’s

boring the young

on wasted youth

candles burn into wax

and the facts remain

we are all insane mad men

weirdos who escape into limitless

darkness seldom towards the light

looking for life in the annex

under the stairs

punching stars into the sky

over our organism

the oceans fuck the coast

gently to the shore

in the woods trees masturbate

to the mating of

insects and mammals

the mountains give way

to the deserts

where life

is forgotten

a skull of a bull sits

till its buried by the wind