Every Writer’s Birthday Ever. [A Trip Through Sad-Clown-Shit-for-Purpose through a Spectulative-Lens of Art + Lost Passion.]

Another trip around the Sun

And I find myself relinquishing to shame

And deep-set Anguish.

The Origin of Every Existence.

Knowing you’re a blessing to be around and finding a way to life and ways to circumfront

That no one knows what they’re doing.

And I what I hold callously

Or self-deprecatingly.

Will utterly break me,

Under my intrigue

And critical attention

To everything I find lacking.

And then only then,

Do I remember that to be biotic – one must make waste.

And I hold that kismet,

To nihilistic tunes or rage

De-admittance, and giving up.

That’s it’s all a crock of bullshit.

And this is the Life I got.

Make time to be sad about it.

Being an-original-sin: sucks.

It’s supposed to be my day off today.