The Impracticalities of Devastation

     I’m not sure what to say other than I’m tired of everything being a goddamn joke with me. I guess everything isn’t, but enough is.

     Pain is humorous when I’m harboring it under my own gilded dock, near my seashells by the deceit-shore of coalescence infringement. Devouring my snails, swallowing them whole, they wallow in their lunch breaks by avoiding my pearly grains.

     My aspects have disintegrated, my quirky traits once loved, well, once lost to gift-giving. Today I am less than bottom-fed jewels.

     Eventually the sunset will prevail over this stark conscience stream, and this will all be but a dream for the deemed worm of a man.