Newsflash, humility was shot dead today in a back alley dispute with vanity.

The whole world’s a stage but I am not an actor, I am, always was, will be, the audience, 6,000 different misrepresentations of how I see myself have crowed into a theatre to watch the earth cave in upon itself, I don’t need to acknowledge the spectacle because I’ve come to understand that writing is not a career or a way of life, it is a condemnation passed down from the vengeful heavens, forever damned to criticize the thought process of bricks and what the concrete thinks about the girls I’d like to meet, but aim two mirrors at each other and behind the eighteenth reflection of a reflection you will find me, for this is where I’ve managed to maintain my status as a shadow by subconsciously suggesting that I was never born, this whole poem is just words I’ve exploded and moulded in my own fractured self-image, but this is in fact an attack upon conventionality and obscenely conveniently placed franchise coffee brothels and outlet shopping centres peddling class war in the form of designer labels, my mind is a construction site, hard hats required to project you from falling thoughts, this is where I conjugate verbs and create self-serving words in an attempt to describe the perpetual Monday my life has been, if existence is a relentless parade of human tragedy, i want to be the rouge drummer assailing the world with six beats a minute, I’ve been around for thousands of years but i don’t remember the first two thousand eighty four of them not like it matters anyway i get reinvented everyday, this piece was not devised to describe or define anything at all,  this is a deafening silence disguised.

Author Unknown

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