misanthropic misanthropy.

your life is one great punchline, a haymaker impossible to dodge,
another mistake, another failure, another biblical-sized botch.
hang yourself from your inverted, metallic, rusted cross
while you whine for days over each imagined failure and loss.
you dug yourself a pretty grave but it isn't very spacious -
cause your mother didn't make it, your uselessness is contagious.
the only thing we will exhume, the worthlessness that you exude:
the lies with which you dilute, the emptiness that you imbue.
smash your face into the desk and then again on pencil lead,
or instead force-fed the silver spoon through the back of your fucking head.
alcoholism and instability grow old pretty fucking quickly,
fill the void with more vodka-cokes and shitty, watered-down whiskey.
you shot yourself in both your feet and cut off each your hands,
asked for help to jump from the wonky pedestal which you stand.
you sing woe, is me while you cry and suck your thumb -
another drop in the waters of the world's idiots and scum.
do us all a favour and cut out your vile tongue
to finally gather enough self-reflection to think about what you've done.