Have Wood

irony: surround myself with trash, then wonder why i feel like crap,
she lives on an imaginary farm, i live on a piece of wood: a hopeless map,
when you have the option of having it, the lack thereof isn't profound,
and when you don't, incessantly acquiring it you feel forever bound,
i'd apologize for god's shortcomings, but i don't believe in it,
suffering doesn't need a creator, life: there's no reprieve in it,
every lazy 'i love you,' every relationship in light speed,
no control panel, one too old, one to trashy to breed,
i can't love you, it's simply not in my power,
the ephemeral coitus, is all i care to devour,
she as a person, as something of a greater value,
reminiscing, you were unremarkable: you were the gal who...
i don't remember, i don't care,
about your makeup, fake eyelashes or colored hair,
i masturbated, didn't feel good, had sex, neither did that,
i'm doing something wrong? i'm an ungrateful, spoiled little brat?
life is about pleasure, only about achieving pleasure,
with every meaningless, selfish action, this is the only measure...

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