These days of grey can pass like cigarette smoke,
But usually linger like pungent stenches from drainpipes.
That rotting odour locks onto my nostrils,
Acting as an incessant adhesive that refuses to
Killing interests, murdering my thrills.
These eyes of shattered glass stare.
They stare at this luminescent screen in agony.
Shards of noir-stained glass slice these cheeks and
Ricochet against various keys.
This mind of mine laughs at such pathetic self-hatred,
Calling it obnoxiousness, selfishness.
What’s the point?