i say, isn't it ironic.
then i choke on the words.
the rhyme leaks out the side of my mouth,
half-dead, like everything else.
new keyboard.
smashed the old one against the floor last night.
not rage,
just boredom.
just the pure fucking ugliness of knowing
nothing changes.
they broke everything.
they pissed on it and smiled.
and we bought it, didn't we?
i don't pray.
i sit.
i wait for the silence.
sometimes the old man's voice shows up instead,
sharp as a razor in a drunk’s fist.
he never leaves empty-handed.
no irony today.
no punchline.
just me,
a burning blunt,
a dead stare,
and a slow fade
nobody will care about.