The art of living has been dying fast,
cause sometimes life can really kick your ass.
The art of living is a dying one,
cause sometimes life really ain’t no fun.
I’m an independent overtone.
I’m a product of a stolen age.
I’ve been fighting off these parasites.
I’ve been choking on my swollen rage.
I’m an apathetic, pseudo savant,
trying far too hard to be nonchalant.
And this existential frame of mind,
leaves me all tied and wasting time.
I’d vaporize these illused restraints,
that hold me beyond complaint.
I’d actualize these thoughts of mine,
but I just can’t seem to find the spine.
I’m a self-indulging overdose.
I’m a box of words and broken poems.
I’m a fit of tears and screams no more.
I’m a dying art, but not heart-poor.