Bums

The homeless man’s epileptic verbal pandering towards the second-coming.
A strong smell of warm rubbish in the uncirculated air and sound of filthy speech all around.
Cars are honking at each other, like an autonomous passive-aggressive yell.
We are sitting on a curb, looking about in our dreary glazed-over eyes.
Our Idealism has ended us.
They wish we’d spare no resentment when wanting to keep ourselves down.

But I cannot help from putting this needle in my arm.
“You need to get your act together, kid,” they’d say.
I’d reply, “This life is not made for us.”
I’m nervous, and I’m shy.
My eyelids barely lift when I wake.
I dislike order and repetition.
They ordered me to construct my thought to be scrutinized.
That’s what happened to my brain and self-confidence.
It was held up, only to be picked apart, and it shattered me whole.
Going down to the sewers: Its drivel remains self-reliant.
A place of beggars and nihilistic dreamers: foreboding the future.
Crowding together, all waiting for an overdose of pure ecstasy.
“What a beautiful place to call home,” an onlooker says, before driving off.
Oh yes, sir, I wish you never perceive angst in such a way.
It has killed all of us, we are just living ghouls and damned you’d be, if it did the same to you.