Emboldened and esteemed by excitement and encouragement, the performance of pain predominates my lifes prospects. Trapped in tragedy, we tragic, I’m terrified. New year, new me, just as empowered as a nigga is powerless. Shoutout to my stolen peoples, my single tears, my entire seas! Shoutout sweeping separation from the so-called punk scene. Benefit gigs for presidential bids are clearly only strange to me. Stranger still, my written word is real only when I’m blacked out for yt to see. The torture told is spun from the gold that all of my stabwounds secrete, like my wasteful wail of “WHAT I AM ISN’T WHO I AM” at every person that I meet. The post-modern people-please slamdances sanctimoniously against what it thinks it thinks; its only common enemy aside from all the ones it won’t allow itself to see. In this environment, effectuating emotional exchanges intended to affirm are instead exploitative exercises in ignoring everyone. The imposed invisibility is as equally exhausting as the enthusiasm. The hate begets hate, the love mistrust. Living numb and loving it in a niche nonplussed! Now I’m
a jerk and everybody loves me, but you dicks couldn’t give two shits ‘til you could feel like clenching yr fists while they stayed safe in yr pockets.

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