Hell, I wouldn't even call this poetry, but #*!& it. Here we are. Probably not even worth reading.
And in the time it takes to adjust the brightness
you will have lost everything
Look at this fucking thing
Look at how long it takes just to open a document
How is one to work in these conditions
Hearing the fucking clickity-clank
even with the music on max
My thoughts don't hold out long enough to transfer
from the medium of my thoughts to the pages of my...
My metaphors get right to the fucking finish line
And now look at this thing,
locking up everytime I click on an object
Get the fuck out of here.
The longer this energy burns
the more my body withers to its aura
And now look at the lava burning the page.
Horrid and crude,
barely any metaphor,
not even a glimpse of a shadow for what seemed like
mountains that used to protrude over the page.
And now we flow with no direction,
hitting enter erraticaly
placing commas with no sense of purpose
adding run-ons that stretch the entire span
of attention's capacity.
My heart's bleeding
My heart's beating
My heart's beaten
And what a decrepid piece of shit
my blood pumps through.
So lost, that not even the void can embrace.
Here we go
Here we go
Here we go again.
Back into depression we descend