I will keep writing even as a ghost,
For those planning my murderous end.
My pen will keep on moving as if by wind,
No power can my will bend.
Truth hurts I know, baby,
And I am a spiny porcupine.
I've digested enough bullshit in this life,
Guaranteed not to be fine.
The alliteration rattling in your head, you wet your bed,
The prose verbose, characters gross.
The low class lurid I find alluring,
Can't deny I am a nihilistic force.
So fuck you all, and fuck everything,
I can't wait to start to hate anew.
There's no energy in many possibilities,
As there are in few.
So I have no faith in concensus,
Especially that wrought by fools.
I'd rather live by my own rules,
In a cave built from my own tools.
