Tired.

Drained.

Another day gone.

Taken.

Deceived.

What have I achieved?

What meaning has this thing called life?

Despair.

Frustration.

Despair.

Smoothness of pubis,

he gropes.

And finally

I understand procreation’s purpose

(perverted creation):

a plea for help,

a desperate hope,

that some day

someone

will give enough of a shit

to rescue me.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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