lullaby

(camus asked: why should one not commit suicide? I say: you're right.)

my mind wanders the streets of the night
looking for things to fill my empty heart
but try as I might
things they just fall apart.

back and forth behind a cigarette
up and down glasses of straight whiskey
in and out the doors of women
at the end of it all, i am still alone.

i am a blob, a pulp,
a mass of seething melancholy
my heart beats a tired rhythm
i wish it would stop.

my head hurts from the buzzing in my ears
the buzzing of satre's nausea
my breath halts and starts
i wish i was dead.

down the spiral of despair i go
it is an old familiar path i trod
every single step is to the same old tune
even self-destruction bores me...

and nothing will be enough tonight
i wont be better come the morning
a haircut wont be catharsis this time
for i am sick of myself

there is no cure
there will be no better tomorrow
there is no one to save me
there is only restlessness and desire, suffering and revulsion.

please, some brown-eyed angel
yesterday i wanted you to love me
today i want your eyes to reflect the disgust i feel towards my diseased soul
put me out of my misery with your carelessness.

i yearn -
but there is nothing to yearn for;
i cry -
when there is nothing to cry about;
i sigh -
yet i can't let myself go;
i am wound up tighter than a music box
it is fucked. it wont play.
i wind it up tighter.
it's about to explode -
but it cant. instead
it implodes
and, in time
i too will be dead inside.
and my husk, my mask, my facade, my shell
can go to hell.